


staring at the sun

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack Treated Seriously, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Partying, Past Captain Flint | James McGraw/Thomas Hamilton, Past Miranda Barlow/Captain Flint | James McGraw, Recreational Drug Use, Song Lyrics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26881090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: blinded by the thought of us, sogive me a chance, i willfuck up again, i warnedyou in advancebut you just keep on starin' at the sun
Relationships: Captain Flint | James McGraw/John Silver
Comments: 7
Kudos: 41





	staring at the sun

**Author's Note:**

> First, I want to dedicate this to my sweet honeybee, for all their support, love, encouragement, and kisses - I could not have done this without them. Thank you, love, for letting me read to you, bounce ideas off you, ramble about silly puns and wild outfits to you. You make every day brighter, and enrich my life so much. I love you!
> 
> I also want to profusely thank the friends I yelled ideas at, who helped beta read for me, who made sure Flint and Silver are as in character as they can be given the scenario.
> 
> Hoo boy y'all, this one got away from me. I didn't intend for it to be more than about 10k at the most and here it is, 27k. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> Here's the basic premise, before you get any further: imagine, if you will, that Silver is basically Post Malone. He gets in some legal trouble and needs a criminal defense attorney, who in this universe is James Flint with just a smidgen of Annalise Keating from How To Get Away With Murder.
> 
> If that sounds like fun to you, by all means, keep reading!
> 
> I want to put it out there that I am not a lawyer, nor do I play one on TV. I did do a fair amount of legal research for this; the case against Silver and what exactly he's charged with came from an actual incident with Lil Wayne in 2008 that eventually led to him going away to Rikers Island for almost a year on a plea bargain. I did gloss over a lot of how trials work in the US, though, partly because I don't find it all that fascinating and also because it varies from state to state and I made the hilarious decision to set this story in Florida, a state I have never visited, much less lived in or, you know, gone to trial in.
> 
> All of Silver's songs are actual Post Malone songs, so credit goes to him for those. The title of each part of the story comes from a song that I suggest listening to either before you read that part or during, but of course that's up to you. As is typical with me, the fic title and lyrics in the description are also from a song, 'Staring At The Sun' by, yes, Post Malone.
> 
> I also created a Spotify playlist and a Pinterest board for this fic because I can't help myself:
> 
> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3XrHqzJRB1sTwrdLBsThFW?si=9Qachg4OTmS_4Se2of1U0g
> 
> Board: https://pin.it/jhANUES
> 
> Lastly, this entire thing was originally all typed out on my phone, so please forgive any small errors. I did my best to find and fix them!
> 
> I think that's all the notes I have up top, but make sure you check the notes at the end too, once you've finished reading, for a little surprise.

[part i: money made me do it]

“No. I’m not taking on a celebrity client. Especially not one like _that_.”

“Come on, James! Think of the publicity. It could be good for the firm, and we’d have to be stupid to say no to that kind of money.”

Flint sighs, looking up from his phone and scowling dubiously at his law partner, Miranda Barlow. 

“Publicity? I barely even know who he is! I’ve never heard a single song of his. Surely there’s a younger, hipper-” he pretends not to notice Miranda snorting at him “-attorney who could be more of an asset to him. How did he even get my name? Did you go forward with those bus ads even after I said no?”

“You remember the murder trial last year, with the heiress?” Miranda asks, settling into the chair opposite Flint’s desk. She pulls her dark hair loose from its sleek low bun and shakes it out, toeing off her shoes. 

“Eleanor Guthrie, yes, I remember,” Flint says, leaning back in his plush leather chair. “He’s a friend of hers?”

“Friend might be too strong a word, but they do know each other. When he got into this mess she recommended you as a criminal defense attorney,” Miranda says, helping herself to the tequila bottle Flint had just moments ago fished out of his liquor cabinet. She pours a healthy amount into the glass Flint had retrieved for himself, and then the same amount into the second glass he’d grabbed because he knows she has a sixth sense for when he breaks out the good stuff. Sure enough, she had appeared in the doorway of his office to badger him about this prospective client almost immediately. 

Flint murmurs his thanks and takes a sip, considering. He’s never particularly wanted to be a lawyer to the stars, but the money is very tempting. He knows he can do the job, too - he can handle any case that’s thrown at him. He kept Eleanor from going to prison, after all, and that was no small feat. 

“Remind me again what he’s charged with, exactly?” he requests, setting his glass down so he can do a little light internet stalking. He squints at his laptop screen and then reluctantly takes his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. Much better. 

“Criminal possession of a loaded weapon. There was a gun on his tour bus in Orlando when the police searched it,” Miranda replies, then takes a sip of her drink. 

“What cause did they have to search the bus in the first place?” Flint asks, frowning at the images that come up on google. He’s been aware of this potential client in a vague way for some time, and despite his earlier protestations he actually can recall having heard a song or two of his on the radio. Somehow, though, he’d never seen a picture of him before. Two words: face tattoos. 

“It smelled like marijuana, allegedly,” Miranda says, chuckling. 

“Like every tour bus ever in the history of musicians touring on buses,” Flint mutters. “So they were just looking for anything they could find to bust him.”

“Seems like it. They searched him, too, right before his show that night. He complained about the increased police presence while he was performing, did an impromptu cover of that NWA song,” she says, shaking her head and hiding a smile behind her glass. 

“Ahh, I see, it was retaliation on their part, then. He’s annoyed they’re there, makes his irritation known after they search him without cause, and all of a sudden they have a good reason to search his tour bus. Was it his gun, at least?” Flint asks. 

“No, registered to his manager, one Hal Gates. He does have a gun collection but swears up and down he doesn’t own that model and would never bring any of his own guns on the road anyway. Too valuable and, I suspect, he’s not as stupid as he wants people to think,” she says. 

“Hmm. It’s not his gun but it is on his bus, and he probably knew it was there and - what, maybe he hid it when they got searched? So now they’re acting like it’s his because he tried to conceal it.” Flint exhales quietly and takes another sip of tequila, feeling it warm his belly. “Seems fairly open and shut to me. It’s legally speaking not his gun, they can’t prove that he knew it was there, end of story. Fucking cops meddling as usual, and trying to make an example of a famous person.”

“So you’ll take it?” Miranda asks, raising one eyebrow. “You’re taking it. You’re Better Now’s criminal defense attorney!”

Flint winces. “So it would seem. Can we do anything about that stage name? Someone should’ve talked him out of it before he got famous with it.” 

“His first album came out three years ago, I’m pretty sure he’s sticking with that name at this point. His real name is John Silver, so at least there’s that,” Miranda says, finishing her drink. Flint downs the rest of his; she pours them each another. 

“Well then. To Better Now and all the money he’s going to pay us to keep him out of prison,” Flint says, raising his glass. 

“Cheers,” Miranda says, smirking. 

—

[part ii: wow.]

A few days later finds Flint driving out to Coral Gables to meet with his newest client at his ridiculously palatial mansion. It’s just barely past 1pm but already hot and sticky outside; typical Miami weather. He’d wanted to come earlier, try and avoid the heat of midday, but his client’s manager Gates had politely discouraged trying to meet with him before noon. Flint parks his black Cadillac outside and walks up the steps to the front door. The welcome mat has what looks like a Barbie dream house on it and reads ‘come back with a warrant’ in fun pink script. 

“Cute,” Flint sighs, and rings the doorbell. Several long moments pass before the heavy door finally swings open, revealing a heavyset bald man about Flint’s height, wearing a shiny red shirt, tight white pants, and too much gold jewelry. He’s deeply tanned and has a tiny, very styled goatee. 

“Hello! You must be the lawyer. James Flint, right? I’m Hal Gates, the kid’s manager. Come in, come in,” the man says jovially. “He’s still waking up. I tossed him into the shower not twenty minutes ago so he should be along shortly. Can I get you anything, Mr. Flint?” Gates asks as he ushers Flint inside and shuts the door behind him.

“Water would be nice, thank you,” Flint says as they pass through the marble-tiled foyer and into an expansive living room. There are so many bright colors and mixed loud patterns, it makes Flint’s eyes hurt. 

“Make yourself at home,” Gates urges, pulling a bottle of water from a nearby mini fridge and handing it to Flint. “He’ll be right down.”

Flint settles on one of several couches in the room and cracks open the bottle of water, taking a long drink. He can feel eyes on him even after Gates leaves, and it takes him a moment to realize why - there’s a huge glass tank against the wall opposite him, and inside it are three chameleons basking under a heat lamp. Because of course there are. 

Despite Gates’s assurances that the man himself will appear posthaste, it takes a good twenty minutes for him to finally show his (tattooed) face. He approaches quietly enough that Flint is startled when he looks up from his phone and sees, at last, his client: Better Now. He’s shorter than Flint expected, dressed exceedingly casually in blue plaid pajama pants and a pastel pink t-shirt with a unicorn on the front. There’s a small gold hoop in his left nostril. His long, curly dark hair is damp from the shower and he looks, at best, half awake. Fitting, since the tattoos under his eyes read ‘Always Tired’ in curly script. 

Flint stands and extends one hand to him. “Hello. I’m James Flint, attorney at law. You must be-”

“Yeah, yeah, good to meet you, man,” he interrupts, seizing Flint’s hand and pulling him in close for an impromptu hug, patting him firmly on the back with his other hand. Alright then. “Don’t bother with the stage name. You can just call me John, or Silver. Whatever.”

“Good, thank you. I was going to feel pretty ridiculous if I had to actually call you Better Now. No offense,” Flint says as he sits back down. Silver settles in a plush armchair opposite him and cracks open a can of beer that must’ve been in the pocket of his pajama pants. 

“Naw, none taken. I don’t usually ask people to call me that to my face. It’s just a stage name, you know,” Silver says with a dismissive wave, and takes a long drink of his Bud Light before asking his next question. “So like, what’re you here for, again?”

“...I’m your lawyer. You know, what with the felony charge and all,” Flint says, staring at him in mild disbelief. Is Silver fucking with him? He must be. 

“I already got a lawyer, though. Featherstone,” Silver says, pushing his damp hair out of his face and narrowing his blue eyes at Flint, his brow furrowing. His hands are tattooed too, Flint realizes, and all his teeth that Flint can see save the upper front six are shining gold. It’s almost like he’s trying to subtract from whatever natural visual appeal he might have. 

“Right, Mr. Featherstone is your lawyer for things like contracts and endorsements. Negotiating media appearances and such. I’m a criminal defense attorney, I’m here to keep you out of prison,” Flint explains patiently. “Mr. Featherstone can’t do that, which is why you called me.”

“Ah, okay. Got it,” Silver says, and takes another sip. “Do you think I have a good case? Like, are they gonna believe you when you tell them I didn’t do it?” he asks, fixing Flint with a stare that’s surprisingly intense for someone who a) just woke up and b) is already halfway through a can of beer. 

“Yes,” Flint says without hesitation. “Because here’s the thing, I don’t need to know if you’re guilty or not. Fundamentally, I don’t care. My job is to defend you, and keep you from going away from all this,” he says, gesturing around them. Movement in the doorway catches his eye, and he watches as an exotic-looking kitten with what can only be described as resting bitch face slinks across the plush carpet to Silver and leaps gracefully into his lap. 

“Hey, Mittens,” Silver coos, scratching under the surly-looking kitten’s chin. “So you don’t need to know about the gun or anything? What _do_ you need to know?” he asks, juggling the kitten and the Bud Light, managing to drink without losing his grip on Mittens or spilling his beer. 

“I need to know if there’s anything important you haven’t told me. I know the basics of your case - I understand law enforcement unfairly targeted you that evening and charged you with possession of a weapon that isn’t even yours, so it will be easy for me to prove you not guilty and win this case for you.” Flint eyes Silver and takes a sip of his water before continuing. “What I need you to tell me is if there’s anything else the prosecution might dig up and use against you. And if you lie to me, Mr. Silver, I _will_ find out, and it will be unpleasant for both of us. Believe me.”

Silver goes still, fixing Flint with another of those intense stares. There’s a long, borderline tense silence. 

“Naw,” Silver finally says, and only then does he break eye contact with Flint, looking down at Mittens instead. “I’m sure you looked up my record anyway, y’know. I ain’t done nothing real bad. Before this it was just stupid shit, throwing TVs out hotel windows and other nonsense like that. No felonies. I don’t wanna go to prison, Mr. Flint.”

“You won’t, Mr. Silver. I won’t let that happen,” Flint assures him. He makes to stand; he has all the information he needs and isn’t much interested in staying any longer than necessary in this bizarrely decorated mansion. The wallpaper in the sitting room is already making his eyes hurt. “Well. I think we’re done here for now and you are paying me for my time, so-”

“You leaving already? Come on man, hang out for a minute. I was gonna grab something to eat, you should come with me,” Silver says, gently taking Mittens off his lap and setting the creature on the carpet with the utmost reverence. “I can show you my cars.”

Flint is about to decline again, more firmly, when Silver says the magic word: cars. Flint is something of a connoisseur himself, and he can’t help but be morbidly curious to see the car collection of a young person with too much money who decorates his home like a chintzy casino on an acid trip. 

“I suppose I have some time before my next appointment,” Flint says, making a show of checking his watch and frowning at it. He doesn’t have any more appointments on his schedule for today, but Silver doesn’t know that. 

“Sick. I’m gonna go change,” Silver says, and strolls from the room, disappearing into the foyer and thumping loudly up the grand staircase. 

It seems like an eternity before he returns, outfitted this time in a light pink romper patterned all over with tiny white flowers. It’s quite a look, emphasized by what Flint takes at first for an elaborate piece of jewelry on Silver’s left leg. Curious, he looks again and realizes it is, in fact, a below-the-knee prosthetic, finished in shining white gold. It’s decorated with all manner of flowers, etched into the metal like tattoos. 

“Ready?” Silver asks and Flint hurriedly focuses on his insouciant face instead, hoping Silver isn’t annoyed that he was looking so closely at his leg. 

“Ready,” he confirms, standing and following Silver through the labyrinthine dayglo mansion to the twelve-car garage. 

“Et voila,” Silver says as he opens the door and ushers Flint inside. The overhead lights flicker on automatically, revealing a stunning array of gleaming machinery. Some vintage, some new, all very expensive. 

“Holy shit,” Flint murmurs in approval. “How many do you have?” he asks, looking around. He feels like a kid in a candy store. 

“Fourteen, all told. Eight here, four at my place in LA, two more in storage. I’m in a bidding war with this dude from Japan for another foreign, so hopefully fifteen soon. Nothing excessive,” Silver jokes.

“Because you really _need_ a fifteenth car, right?” Flint asks, teasingly. 

“I can’t help myself, man. I see an opportunity - I take it. It’s, like, a sickness,” Silver says, laughing loud, his gold teeth flashing. “So which one you wanna take? I’m driving, obviously. But you can pick the ride.”

They’re all tempting, but Flint finds himself most drawn to a ghostly white Rolls Royce Wraith. The license plate reads ‘HELL YE.’ Cute. 

“That one,” he says, gesturing to the Wraith and walking towards it. “It’s...very impressive.”

“Pricey as fuck, you mean,” Silver says, chuckling. “Coulda guessed you’d pick that one, mister fancy lawyer man. Let’s go,” he says, sliding into the driver’s seat as Flint settles into the passenger side. 

“Where do you get off calling me fancy when it’s your $300,000 car we’re in?” Flint jokes, buckling his seatbelt. 

“Naw, see, I’m not like you are. I have an essence of bougie about me, sure, but that ain’t real. It’s store bought, you know? You’re different,” Silver explains as he carefully backs the car out of the garage and revs the engine. It’s a good sound. 

Flint half-expects Silver to play something of his own as they drive, so he’s surprised to hear Nirvana coming out of the speakers instead. 

“Not going to play me your latest?” he asks, checking his phone. One text from Miranda, asking how it’s going and when he’ll be back in the office. He slides the phone back into his pocket without answering. 

“Fuck no, nobody plays their own shit in their car for people,” Silver says, laughing at him.

“What about that one guy who says his name in all his tracks?”

“Jason DeRulo?” Silver grabs a pair of dark, stylish sunglasses from the center console with one hand and slips them on. 

“No no, the other one. The one who made headlines when he said he won’t go down on his wife.”

“Ohh, DJ Khaled. Yeah I bet you’re right, he totally would play his music in his car real loud and make everybody listen to it,” Silver says, snickering. “Asshole.”

“So, where are you taking me, anyway?” Flint asks, glancing out the tinted windows. It looks bright and hot outside; he’s somewhat envious of Silver’s shorts. He doesn’t think the floral look would suit him, though. 

“There’s a tony new place in St. Augustine I been meaning to check out, figured now was as good a time as any. You don’t seem like a cheap date though so I may be in over my head, budgetarily speaking,” he jokes. 

Flint snorts despite himself, eyeing Silver sideways. “Several things. Firstly, St. Augustine is that way,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “Second, it’s almost five hours’ drive from here, which I’m assuming you didn’t know, otherwise you’re more or less abducting me. And finally, but perhaps most significantly, I am not your date. Cheap or otherwise.”

“Aww, man,” Silver says, sounding genuinely disappointed despite the crooked grin on his face. “Alright, fine. I’ll take you to a place I know around here, then.”

The place he knows ends up being a rather hole in the wall Cuban restaurant that Flint has somehow never been to before, despite the many years he’s lived in Florida. Over huge portions served on mismatched plates he and Silver begin to get to know each other. 

“So I take it you aren’t from around here,” Flint says, taking a sip of his beer. He hadn’t been planning on ordering alcohol but Silver had insisted, and somehow Flint couldn’t say no to him. 

“What gave me away, the fact that I know sweet fuck all about how to get around?” Silver jokes. “Yeah naw, I’m from Texas. Well, not originally, but I grew up there, so. I mostly live here now but I got a house in LA too.” He takes a bite of food. “What about you?” he asks, mouth full. 

“I’m from England. A little town by the sea,” Flint says. “But I moved here quite a few years ago now, when I was younger than you are. I’ve been practicing law with my partner Miranda for...let’s see, close to twelve years.”

“Ms. Barlow, yeah, I talked to her on the phone when I called y’all. She convince you to take me on?” Silver asks, looking at Flint keenly. 

“How did you figure that out?” Flint asks, taking a sip of beer to cover his genuine surprise at Silver’s perceptiveness. 

“Well, you don’t really seem to know who I am - which is great, actually! I like that about you - and you don’t normally take on celebrity clients. I googled you,” Silver says. “Plus she’s the one I talked to, not you, but you’re the one here meeting with me. Ipso facto - you like that? I know some lawyer speak - she talked you into me. I mean, in- you know what I mean.” He picks up his cocktail and takes a long, loud sip through the straw. He almost looks like he’s blushing, but between his deep tan and his face tattoos it’s hard to tell. 

“That’s...well, yes, you’re correct. She said taking your case would certainly be good money, and might even be good publicity,” Flint says, finishing off his beer and settling back in his chair, studying Silver. Ipso facto, really? Who _is_ he?

“Good publicity, huh? I’ll try to be on my best behavior, then,” Silver jokes, and - contrary to what he just said - flags their server down for another cocktail. 

It’s surprisingly easy, talking to Silver. Almost too easy. Flint orders another beer against his better judgment and lets himself lose track of time, focusing instead on the cold drink in his hand, the gleam of gold when Silver smiles, the loose low raspy way he laughs when Flint says something he finds particularly hilarious. 

By the time they finally wrap up and make to leave, it’s somehow pushing 6pm. It takes Silver some effort to actually depart the place; word has gotten out that he’s there and as soon as they step outside he’s mobbed by fans looking for photos and autographs. It’s a bit of a circus; Flint is simultaneously taken aback by the chaos and impressed with how well Silver handles it. He’s calm and friendly, joking with his fans and thanking them profusely for supporting him. 

Silver manages to drive them back to his mansion without getting lost and invites Flint inside again, but he begs off. He needs to at least show his face at the office once more before it gets dark. 

“Alright then man, good meeting you,” Silver says, pulling him into another tight hug like he had when they first met. “Hit me up and we’ll hang out. Here, lemme give you my personal number so you don’t gotta go through Gates,” he says, taking Flint’s phone and typing quickly before handing it back. “See you around, James. Cool if I call you that? Mr. Flint sounds, like, _old_. Doesn’t suit you.”

“Well, I am probably twenty years your senior...but yes, sure. Call me James.” He meets Silver’s eyes and nods curtly. “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Silver.”

“John,” he corrects him with a little grin. “Please and thank you.”

“John,” Flint acquiesces, chuckling. “Good day, John. We’ll speak about your case again soon.”

When he checks his phone after getting in his car, he sees that Silver has put his name in as ‘your new fave.’ Cheeky. He sends him a quick text so he’ll have Flint’s number too - just in case of any sudden legal issues or problems with the case, of course - and by the time he gets back to his office there’s already a response. Just a photo, no text. 

It’s a selfie, and Silver is grinning wide enough that Flint can see lots of gold teeth. He’s got his pink floral romper unbuttoned to his waist, shrugged off his shoulders to bare his tattooed chest. 

Flint swallows hard. 

He may be in over his head with this one. 

—

[part iii: myself]

On the way back to his office, Flint decides on a whim to stream Silver’s debut album, _freedom from the dark_. It’s mostly what he would’ve expected - a lot of bragging about money, cars, drugs, and sex. Peacocking, really. But there are a few more emotionally driven tracks that Flint is intrigued by, including one he knows he’s heard before because he recognizes the chorus - _they said I wouldn’t be nothing, now they always say congratulations_. He enjoys the first album enough that he ends up listening to Silver’s second - _static from the tv_ \- as he finally attends to the tasks he neglected all afternoon while spending time with the man himself. He enjoys it, too, rather to his surprise. He couldn’t have pictured himself a fan of Better Now a week ago, but here he is. 

By the time Flint leaves work at last, it’s dark. Where has the day gone? He tells himself that he’s going to go straight home and right to bed. He intends to get a good night’s sleep. He intends to set his alarm so he can get up for a pre-dawn run. He certainly doesn’t intend to go home that night and begin obsessively cyber-stalking his new client. Celebrity or no, that would count as some kind of invasion of privacy, or at least a crossing of certain boundaries. 

So it’s anyone’s guess how he finds himself still awake at nearly 3 in the morning, slumped in front of his laptop and watching an interview Silver did on a late-night talk show a few weeks back. He’s got a vodka tonic in one hand, the ice slowly melting as he watches Silver - hair in two neat Dutch braids, dressed in an ensemble not dissimilar to the romper he wore earlier - joke and talk with the show’s host. 

The interview starts out very jovially and follows the expected pattern - the host discusses the new album Silver is rumored to be at work on, compliments his clothing, asks about any potential upcoming tour dates and locations. Silver is exceptionally well-spoken and polite; there’s a fair amount of ‘yessir’ and ‘thank you sir’ going on. Flint keeps finding himself distracted by Silver’s wide smile, by how he’s sitting with his knees bowed out, by how his tattooed hands grip the coffee mug he’s holding (it’s branded with the logo of the show, and the host jokes that it’s full of Silver’s favorite cheap beer).

But then. 

The host asks about Silver’s chosen prosthetic, noting admiringly that it’s designer. Silver confirms proudly that it’s custom Chanel, then seems to be changing the subject when the host suddenly interrupts and asks a very poorly thought out question. 

“So what happened, anyway? With your leg? I don’t think you’ve ever said publicly,” he says, and Flint can see - even on the small laptop screen - fury flash briefly across Silver’s face. He makes a quick recovery, though, and plasters that easy smile back on. 

“Aw man, c’mon. I don’t get into that. It’s just like, in the past, you know? It’s that personal shit. I’m open with, like, everything else, but I’m not gonna talk about that,” he says. He fidgets with the mug and takes a gulp of whatever’s in it, visibly on edge. 

“I’m just curious! I think a lot of people out there are, since like you said, you’ve never talked about it. How did it happen?” the host presses.

“Fuck,” Flint murmurs and takes a fortifying sip of his own drink. He can tell this interview is about to go south and it’s making him as anxious as if he’s watching it happen live. 

“Man, look,” Silver says, gripping the arm of his chair with one hand and hunching forward slightly. He clears his throat, looking like he’s trying desperately to keep himself calm. “That’s just a line I don’t cross. It’s not gonna happen, not now and not ever. You ask me again and I’m out, on god. I know my manager told you I won't discuss it, so I dunno why you’re pulling this shit.”

“Hey hey hey, easy now, it’s a simple question. I know everybody here would love to hear you answer it. How did you lose your leg?” the host asks, and Flint - alone in his dark condo with his half-melted cocktail - cringes. 

“Oh _hell_ no. That’s it! I’m fucking done here,” Silver snarls, face twisted into a scowl of explosive rage. He takes off his microphone and stands, flinging the mic at the host and shattering the coffee mug he was holding by throwing it to the floor. “Fuck you!” he shouts in the host’s face, flipping him off with both hands, and then he stalks off and is gone from the set.

There are several loud, expensive-sounding crashes from offstage, then a few moments of dead air before the audience members start whispering their disbelief and confusion. The host looks chagrined, then worried, and finally cuts unceremoniously to commercial. The video ends there. 

Flint feels a surge of something like pride for Silver. It really is no one’s business what happened, and the host acting like Silver somehow owed an explanation to him or the audience or anyone at all is, in a word, gross. Flint is glad and impressed at how Silver stuck to his principles. He briefly considers texting Silver about it, then decides that would be far too unprofessional, given how late it is and how many vodka tonics he’s had. Instead, he closes the browser window and finishes off the dregs of his watery drink. It’s far past his bedtime and he’s got work in the morning (he’s not going to make that pre-dawn run happen, though).

As he lies in bed, the sheets cool and crisp against his skin, his thoughts drift to the picture Silver sent him earlier. He doesn’t know exactly why Silver sent it, but he has a strong suspicion. He’s not so old he doesn’t know a thirst trap when he receives one. 

Flint falls asleep with one of Silver’s songs playing on a loop in his head, one with an echoing, almost angelic chorus and the words _I made so much, spent so much, and I can’t get enough; I wish I could’ve been there myself_.

He manages to make it into work by a reasonable hour the next day, despite staying up so late. If he listens to Silver’s music again on the drive, well, that’s no one’s business but his. As he walks in he greets the receptionist, a tall young law student whose name he can never remember, and then makes a beeline for his office.

Predictably, Miranda is already there, waiting on him. 

“Where did you go yesterday?” she asks, a smirk pulling up one corner of her mouth. 

“I had the meeting with our new client Mr. Silver at 1, and then I came back here afterwards to work on a few things. Why?” Flint asks, settling into his chair and opening his work email, squinting at the screen. He knows what Miranda’s doing, but is going to pretend that he doesn’t for as long as he can. 

“You weren’t back here by the time I left for the day. Must’ve been quite some meeting,” she says, folding her arms over her chest. “ _So_?” she asks, dragging the word out, singsong. 

“ _So_ , what? I met with the client. I spoke to him about the case. I reassured him that I won’t let him go to prison. Same as every client meeting you or I have ever had,” Flint says, deliberately not looking at her. 

“Mm,” Miranda says, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. “I’m guessing you’ve already googled him to the ends of the earth, but just in case, I sent you a link to an interview he did that could be a problem for us.”

“Of course I already googled him, he’s a client. I do that with all of them. But I think ‘to the ends of the earth’ is a bit much, it’s not like I’m stalking him,” Flint grumbles, and opens the email in question. “...I have already seen this video, though. I don’t think it’s a problem. Do you?”

“You don’t? Really? He threw a tantrum, dropped several F bombs in front of a live audience, and destroyed some of the show’s equipment. I don’t think the host should’ve taken the question that far, obviously, but Mr. Silver didn’t handle it particularly well either. He was asked to apologize but has yet to do so, from what I understand,” Miranda says. 

“I’m not concerned about it, and I don’t think he did anything wrong. If anything, I think that hack of a host should ask Mr. Silver’s forgiveness, not the other way around,” Flint huffs. “Was there something else?” he asks testily, glancing up at her. 

Miranda frowns slightly and smooths her palms over the skirt of her form-fitting green dress. “Yes. Billy has a message for you, from Jack. Did he mention it to you on your way in?” 

“Who’s Billy? Oh, the receptionist. No, he didn’t, but I’ll follow up with Rackham. Thank you,” he says, feeling a little bad for snapping at her. He’s just surprised she doesn’t feel like he does about Silver’s...well, like he does about Silver. Besides which, he’s severely under-caffeinated for how little sleep he got, and has a headache starting that he can only blame on himself and the vodka tonics. 

“You’re welcome,” Miranda says, and stands to leave his office. She pauses in the doorway. “If you don’t have plans tonight, maybe we could get dinner together. You can tell me everything you learned yesterday about our very first proper celebrity client,” she says, smiling at him a little. 

“Yes, good. It’s a plan,” Flint says, giving her a fond smile back. She nods and then departs, and he picks up his office phone to call Jack Rackham.

The call is short, but informative: Rackham has started his investigation into Silver’s background, which is far more thorough than Flint’s furtive late-night googling, and is also dubiously legal. It’s what Flint and Miranda employ him for, and neither of them is willing to ask him too many questions. Plausible deniability, and all. Rackham says he hasn’t gotten much yet, beyond what Silver has already disclosed to them, but he’s got a feeling there’s more there than meets the eye. He’s going to reach out to his contacts in other countries, he says, and see if anything comes up. Flint thanks him, promises him a handsome bonus if he finds anything good, and hangs up.

He makes himself a strong coffee, spends a few hours taking care of some other work, and is debating going out for a late lunch around 2 when his phone buzzes with a text. 

It’s from Silver.

‘yo fancy lawyer man, you busy tonight? my crew is going out n you should come’

He did make dinner plans with Miranda, but there will be another time for that. It’s important to get to know Silver better, in order to represent him as well as possible. It’s Flint’s duty as his defense attorney to be his champion and prove his moral character, his innocence. Defending someone successfully would be much more challenging if one couldn’t say one truly, thoroughly knew the person. 

Right? Sure. 

In any case, Flint texts Silver back: ‘No plans. Where should I meet you and at what time?’

It only takes him a moment to reply: ‘just come over whenever ur done w ur lawyer stuff’

Flint responds with an affirmative, then slumps in his chair, fidgeting with his watch and exhaling softly. Going out at night after staying up so late the night before wouldn’t normally appeal to him, but his headache from earlier has dissipated and all he can think about is Silver’s raspy laugh and the glint of his teeth. That’s troubling. 

Suddenly, Flint has a distressing thought: what in the world is he supposed to wear? He has nice clothes, certainly, but nothing like what Silver would probably consider stylish. The light gray suit he’s worn to work fits him well (it ought to, it’s bespoke and cost him enough) but isn’t what he would choose to wear on a night out. He doesn’t want to look too stuffy, or like someone’s grandfather. He looks good for a man in his early 40s, he knows, but he also knows Silver and his friends are all probably young enough to be his children. It won’t do to turn up in his boring work clothes if he wants any chance at all of fitting in. There’s only one solution he can see - he has to go home and change before he sees Silver. 

He skips lunch to get his work done that much earlier, and is finished and on his way out by 4pm. He pauses in the doorway of Miranda’s office, rapping gently on the wall to get her attention. 

“I’m going to have to bail on dinner tonight, I’m sorry. Something’s come up with a case,” he says, feeling guilty about being so intentionally vague. They’ve known each other for so long, he’s sure she can see right through him anyway. He half expects her to tease him about what exactly he’s going to get up to tonight. 

“Ah, pity. Maybe tomorrow, then,” is all she says. She smiles at him briefly, then turns back to her computer. “Bye, James.”

“Goodbye,” he murmurs, then takes his leave of her. 

At home, he pulls a few different outfits for consideration and does a quick social media study of Silver, just to see what he normally wears for a night out. As Flint might’ve predicted, there are a lot of bright colors, shiny fabrics, and loud patterns, plus copious amounts of gold jewelry and, amusingly, bolo ties. Flint doesn’t own anything quite that outre, but he has a sudden flash of inspiration when he remembers Yves St. Laurent coming up in several of Silver’s songs. He does own some things from that particular fashion house, so from there it becomes an easy choice. 

He spends perhaps a little too long debating accessories, and ultimately leaves ninety minutes after he got home, dressed in tight black pants, his favorite worn-in black boots, and a silk button-up black shirt with short sleeves that has multicolored stars printed all over it. He’s wearing his best watch and rings, and even has a diamond stud in his ear, replacing the small, simple hoop he normally wears.

He texts Silver that he’s on his way, then drives out to the mansion, feeling a strange tingling sensation all over. It’s some mix of excitement and nerves, like he’s about to do something he knows is dangerous. He’s not at all convinced that agreeing to this night out was a good idea, actually, and part of him feels guilty for canceling on Miranda. But before he can think about it too hard, he’s pulling up outside Silver’s place. 

When Flint rings the bell, it’s Silver himself who answers this time, not Gates. 

“James, hey!” Silver exclaims, sounding downright delighted to see him. He seizes him in a hug and pats his back firmly. “Glad you made it, man! You look good, that’s a sick shirt, nice jewelry too. I’m just getting ready if you wanna come in and hang out for a minute,” he says, leading Flint into the foyer and heading for the stairs. His hair is pulled back in a loose bun that’s already started falling out, and he’s wearing little more than a knee-length sky blue silk robe decorated with cherry blossoms. “Driver’s already here waiting so I gotta festinate myself. Great word, right? It just means hurry up. Watch your step, Mittens is around here somewhere and he’ll cut a bitch if you step on him,” Silver says, rambling on as he leads Flint up the stairs and down a long hallway towards what Flint can only assume is his bedroom. 

Sure enough, Silver flings open a set of French doors to reveal a ridiculously huge master suite, complete with the biggest bed Flint has ever seen. The walk-in closet is open and there are clothes everywhere: on the floor, draped over a chair and a chaise lounge, strewn across the massive bed, even leading out the open door to the balcony. 

“I’m kinda messy,” Silver says. “Not an apology, just a...what, statement of fact, I guess. Hey, you want a drink? Grab whatever you like, I know Bud Light probably ain’t your thing but I got other stuff,” he says, and gestures to a mini fridge in the corner. 

“Are you ever completely sober?” Flint asks even as he helps himself to a small can of sparkling wine he finds in the fridge. 

“Naw, not if I can help it, man,” Silver says, chuckling, as he shrugs out of the robe and begins rummaging around in his closet. Flint realizes with a start that he’s completely naked and turns away to afford him some privacy, feeling his face heat up. He pretends to be suddenly very interested in the elaborate and bizarre pastel pink/blue/purple chandelier hanging from the ceiling. 

“Have you ever thought about starting a charity?” Flint asks, desperate for something to talk about that isn’t Silver’s casual approach to nudity. “Featherstone could probably help you set it up. Might be good for your image.”

“You think I got an image problem? Aw, shit,” Silver says, muffled, from the depths of his closet. 

“Well, no, not in so many words. I did see that interview everyone’s talking about, though,” Flint says, and risks a glance over his shoulder. Silver has his back to Flint and is thankfully now wearing pants, at least. He goes still when Flint mentions that interview, and the set of his shoulders changes. He looks like he’s squaring up to defend himself. 

“Yeah? You got something to say about it?” he asks softly, seriously, and Flint can’t tell if he’s challenging him or just asking him for honest feedback. 

“No. I think you were completely in the right to do what you did. Miranda thinks you should apologize, but I don’t agree. It’s- just because you’re a celebrity doesn’t mean everything about you has to be available for public consumption. You should be allowed to keep some things private,” he says quietly, and takes a sip of his drink for want of anything else to do with his hands. 

“Cool, we can keep hanging out, then,” Silver jokes with a little laugh, sounding almost relieved. “Hey, which shirt you like more?” he asks, turning to face Flint and holding up two options. One is red with black tiger stripes; the other is plain black but sheer and shimmery. His pants are tight, skinny black velvet. 

“They’re both- something. But I prefer the stripes,” Flint says, nodding. The red is a good color for Silver. 

“Nice, I was leaning towards that one anyway,” Silver says, and puts the shirt on. Flint expects him to button it up at least a little, but he does no such thing, apparently having decided it’s better left open. He goes back into the closet and emerges a moment later with a pair of gold cowboy boots, which he sits on the edge of his bed to put on. Then he stands and crosses to his vanity, tossing discarded clothes aside and picking through his jewelry. He puts on piece after piece until he’s practically dripping in gold and diamonds. “Let’s go,” he says once he’s finished accessorizing, his words slurring together so it sounds more like ‘leggo.’ “Bring your drink, man, ‘s not like you’re driving.”

“Right. Ah. Where are we going?” Flint asks, following Silver out of the room, down the hall, and back downstairs. It would be far too easy to get lost in this house. 

“New club downtown, I got an appearance. Then maybe another place or two after that, we’ll see where the night takes us,” he replies, leading Flint outside. Silver’s ‘92 Explorer is idling in the driveway, his driver waiting patiently in the front seat. “Hop in, lawyer man,” Silver says, grinning at him and climbing into the back. 

Flint doesn’t know what he expected, going out to a brand new club in Miami with a well-known and very recognizable celebrity. The night quickly descends, of course, into unbridled chaos. Silver drinks more cheap beer than Flint has seen anyone consume without passing out, and as the night goes on (and on and on), it’s like Silver somehow only gets more energized rather than tiring out. Flint strongly suspects cocaine is involved somehow, but by the time he has that particular revelation, he’s already so drunk himself he can do little more than just try to keep up with Silver.

He must black out at some point, because when he suddenly comes to he’s in his own bed and it appears to be the next afternoon. The last thing he can remember with any clarity is Silver sitting very close to him in a steamy, pitch dark nightclub, animatedly telling him a story (about what, Flint has no idea) and laughing that lush, raspy laugh. 

He sits up slowly, cursing, and glances around. He’s alone, thank goodness. He checks his phone and winces; he should’ve been at work hours ago and there’s a whole night and morning’s worth of missed notifications waiting for him. Most are messages from Miranda asking where he is and if he’s alright, but the rest are from Silver. He starts going through them, squinting at his screen and then turning the brightness down like that’ll help his already raging hangover.

First, there’s the slew of poorly lit pictures of them together that Silver must’ve asked someone to take with his phone. Next, there’s a nonsensical meme that Flint is sure was much funnier when they were drunk. Then there’s a strangely sweet voicemail of Silver singing to him, and lastly, perhaps most tellingly of all, is this typo-riddled text: ‘hey j, it’s me ur news face. you won’t rememberers but i drooped u at ur horse once we founding where is. driver has ur keystone he’ll bring ur cat. sleep tightly <3333’

He slumps back down with a quiet whimper and drops his phone on his chest. No more going out drinking with Silver on weeknights. No more going out drinking with Silver at all, maybe. It’s too late for him to even try to slink into the office, but he knows he at least needs to call Miranda and let her know he’s alive. Barely.

Just picking up his phone makes him feel seasick, but he soldiers on and dials Miranda. 

“Hello?” She sounds tense, breathless. “James?”

“Hngh. Ugh. Sorry.”

“Thank god, you’re okay. Where are you? Where have you been? What happened last night?”

“Went out drinking all night, and as it turns out I’m not twenty-two anymore. I think I blacked out,” Flint rasps. He’s parched, suddenly, so he sits up as slowly as he can and puts his feet to the floor. The room spins and he’s honestly not sure if he’s just that hungover, or still a bit drunk. 

“Why on earth did you do that? You know you missed an important meeting this morning. I had to cover for you and tell the clients you weren’t feeling well,” she says. She sounds angry at him; he knows he deserves it. 

“It was a mistake,” he says. His mouth tastes vile. “I’m sorry.”

“Obviously. What possessed you to reenact your misspent youth? Nostalgia for our law school days?” she asks, and he doesn’t have time to answer before she puts it together herself. “Ahh, Better Now possessed you, I see. You’ve got to be careful, here, James.”

“I’m being careful,” he protests. He groans with effort and stands up, shuffling to his en suite bathroom and getting a cup of water. “I’ll be fine, it’s just a bad hangover.” He takes a tentative sip of water and feels marginally less terrible. 

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it isn’t,” she says quietly. “We have other clients. Don’t get carried away with this one just because of who he is. You can’t afford to follow him around, acting like you’re his new best friend. You’re his lawyer, and he’s a felon.”

“He’s- I’m not- I can handle this myself, Miranda. Weren’t you the one who talked me into taking the case? You know I’m more than capable of dealing with him and whatever he did or didn’t do. I just can’t go out partying with him, which is fine, I don’t fucking want to party with anyone ever again,” he says, shuffling back to bed and curling up on his side. He can’t tell if he’s starving or about to be sick. Or both. 

“You scared me,” she says with a sigh. “When you didn’t come in this morning I thought...I don’t know. I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I’m sorry, again. Truly. I’m wickedly hungover and very embarrassed at how I probably behaved last night, but I’ll recover,” he murmurs, rubbing one hand over his face. “I’ll be at work tomorrow, bright and early, I promise. We should have dinner this weekend.”

“That sounds nice. I have a meeting coming up, so I’ll leave you to your hangover. Try to eat something, and drink more water,” she says. “I hope you feel better, but I also enjoy how much it sounds like you’re suffering.”

“Mm. That’s really our relationship in a nutshell, isn’t it?” Flint jokes. “Alright, I’ll let you go. I’ll text you later, and see you tomorrow.”

They say their goodbyes and Flint hangs up, tossing his phone aside. It buzzes a moment later but he ignores it, choosing instead to force himself up and out of bed. He manages to make it to the kitchen before a wave of nausea hits him hard and he throws up in the sink. He had not missed this part of his misspent youth. He cleans up after himself and manages to very slowly eat a piece of toast, drink some more water, and take a gentle, cool shower before he has to crawl back into bed. 

By the time he remembers to check his phone, it’s been more than two hours since it buzzed. 

It’s a text from Silver, of course. Inviting him out again as though Flint isn’t still half-dead from their last outing. He’s mystified as to how Silver is apparently conscious and upright, much less already planning to go out again. He sends him his regrets and puts his phone on the nightstand, drifting in a half-awake state and ignoring the phone when it buzzes again, three times in quick succession. At some point he falls deeply asleep, and wakes briefly in the middle of the night to check the time. 

What time it is doesn’t even register, though, because all he sees are three messages from Silver: two texts expressing his disbelief and disappointment in Flint for turning him down, and another shirtless selfie, this one accompanied by the words ‘wish u were here.’

It would seem that Miranda was right to tell him to be careful. 

—

[part iv: ball for me]

Flint doesn’t hear much from Silver for almost three weeks following their night out. It’s probably for the best, although it takes him too long to shake the residual guilt he feels from turning Silver down. For his part, Silver clearly isn’t suffering from Flint’s absence - his social media is full of photos of him in wild outfits, drinking and having what looks like a great time with all manner of beautiful young people. 

Not that Flint’s been stalking his Instagram, or anything. 

He buckles down at work, focusing on all his cases, not just Silver’s. He hasn’t heard back from Rackham yet about whether any of his contacts found anything on Silver, and he’s trying not to take that as a bad sign. Surely, if something came up he would know by now. 

Miranda seems relieved that Flint is back to a more typical work-life balance for him, and jokes with him about his brief stint as part of Silver’s posse (he hates that word, which he suspects is why she uses it). Things are more or less back to normal on all fronts. 

Then, one fateful Friday night, his phone buzzes on his desk. He’s working late; the sun is already setting outside and everyone else has gone home. 

It’s a text from Silver, of course: ‘hey fancy lawyer man, long time no hang! u down to do something stupid tonight?’ 

He should say no, politely decline and tell Silver he has work to do. But it’s a Friday night, and as long as he doesn’t drink too much he should be fine. Besides, a part of him that he’s not willing to examine too closely has genuinely missed Silver’s company. Odd.

‘Sure. Send me the address of the club and I’ll meet you there once I’m done here. I can’t stay out too late, though, or drink too much,’ Flint replies, and feels proud of himself for setting that boundary, at least. He’ll have a drink or maybe two max, not so many that he won’t be able to drive himself home. He’ll be back in his own bed, alone, asleep, well before the bars close. 

‘famous last words lol i’ll take it as a challenge! see u soon sugar <3,’ is Silver’s troubling reply. 

Flint goes home shortly thereafter and changes clothes, purely because he’d been wearing that suit all day and was feeling rumpled, not because he’s trying to impress Silver. He decides on tight dark pants and a silk shirt that’s dark blue and printed with an abstract pattern of white-crested waves crashing. Nice, but not over the top, especially by Silver’s standards. He runs a comb through his hair, puts on his favorite boots, and leaves his condo determined not to stay out too late. 

By the time he arrives at the club in downtown Miami, Silver is already there, posted up in a booth in the VIP section with a large crowd of hangers-on around him. When he spots Flint, he beams at him and gestures for the mass of people to part and let him through. 

Flint certainly doesn’t feel a little tingle of pleasure at that. 

“James!” Silver hollers over the thumping music, waving Flint over to sit right next to him. “Good to fucking see you, man! Finally! You want a drink? Lemme get you some champagne,” he says all in one breath, and then Flint is sinking into the plush leather booth and being handed a full champagne flute that Silver seemingly conjured out of thin air. 

“Good to see you, too. I can’t stay too long,” Flint reminds him and takes a delicate sip of his drink. 

“You look hot, man, that shirt is excellent,” Silver says, and either he didn’t hear Flint’s reminder or he’s pretending not to. For his part, Silver is dressed in tight dark leather pants and a black silk shirt printed all over with cream-colored skull-and-crossbones. He’s got gold everywhere - rings on both hands, gold skull studs in his ears, and several shining chains around his neck. He looks like a trickster god, like debauchery personified. Flint can’t take his eyes off him. 

“Thank you, I like yours, too,” he says, taking another sip of the champagne because it tastes good and he’s feeling fidgety. Coming here was a mistake, but it’s too late to change his mind now. 

“Better Now! Ohmigod!” a groupie off to Silver’s right shrieks. “You look like a pirate or something, I fucking love it!”

“Thank you! We both do, amiright,” Silver says, looking sideways at Flint and laughing. “I’d make a shitty pirate though, fuck me. But you?” His focus narrows on Flint and it’s like he’s suddenly the only person in the room. It sends a shiver of excitement tinged with fear down Flint’s spine. “Man, you’d _rule_. Probably be captain in like a day,” he says, and Flint can feel himself flushing pink. 

Flint drinks his first glass of champagne much quicker than he intended to, owing to his nerves. It’s replaced with another before he can even think to ask, then another, and then after the champagne there are unnaturally brightly colored shots, and Silver sitting pressed up against his side, arm around his shoulders, talking so close Flint can feel his breath hot on his ear. Wasn’t he supposed to leave after two drinks, max? What time is it? God, but this was a terrible idea. He checks his phone to see the time but it doesn’t register; he can’t focus enough to even read the numbers. There’s some kind of notification on his screen, too, from Rackham, he thinks, but now is not the time to try to make sense of it. 

“I should go,” Flint murmurs to himself, and since when are Silver’s fingers in his hair? He’s got such massive hands and he’s twining strands of Flint’s hair around his fingers, mumbling about how pretty and red it is. It’s truly distracting, and intoxicating. 

“Naw, stay. Stay with me,” Silver rumbles lowly, leaning in close, his eyes half-shut. “James. Please.”

“But I’m tired,” he protests feebly, as though that’s going to change anything about this situation. As though it even matters. 

Silver leans away for a few moments and comes back rubbing his nose vigorously with his left hand, holding his right hand out to Flint. There’s a line of fine white powder laid out along his thumb. 

“I got something for that,” he says. His pupils are so big his eyes don’t even look blue anymore. The lights of the club flash across his skin and Flint leans in close, hypnotized. It’s wild and dark and dangerous and stupid, but it feels so good to give in. 

It’s not the first time he’s tried cocaine but it’s been many years since he last did it. The feeling that hits him immediately reminds him why he ever did it in the first place, and also why he stopped. 

He looks at Silver, dazed, seeing him through a haze of multiple types of intoxication. He looks too good to be real. But he is, he’s very real and warm and glowing, and leaning into Flint’s personal space again. So close. He pauses a hair’s breadth away, and Flint can see a bead of sweat roll slowly down his temple. 

“What is this?” he asks, his tongue thick in his mouth. He can feel electricity crackling under his skin. “What do we do?” He’s desperate for a distraction, a reason to not do what he wants to do so badly. 

Before Silver can give him an answer, though, Flint gives into what he’s been aching to do all night and for longer than that, really, if he’s being honest with himself. He puts a hand to the back of Silver’s head, pulls him in, and kisses him with bruising force. Silver’s lips are soft and warm, he tastes sweet and sharp like alcohol, and all Flint can think about is tasting him more, everywhere, all night. He’s already gone this far, and the part of him that he’s been ignoring and denying since he first met Silver is unwilling to be kept in its cage any longer. 

“We gotta get out of here,” Silver says breathlessly when Flint pulls away. “C’mon. We’ll slip out the back,” he says, getting to his feet and pulling Flint up with him in one fluid motion. 

“I can’t drive,” Flint protests even as he follows Silver wherever they’re going. “Neither should you.”

“Ain’t gonna. Driver will take us home,” Silver explains, and then they’re slipping out the back door of the nightclub, heading for the black Mercedes Benz that’s already idling in the alley, waiting for them. Did Silver plan this in advance or is he legitimately some kind of god who can just make expensive cars appear at will? Doesn’t matter. 

What matters is Silver’s hand in his own, Silver pressing Flint’s back to the gleaming Benz, Silver fitting his right thigh between both of Flint’s and kissing him like both their lives depend on it.

“Want you so bad,” Silver groans when he pulls away. “Fuck. Come on, get,” he says, and Flint reluctantly slips his grasp so they can open the car door and wind up a tangle of limbs in their haste to get in. 

They’re all over each other for the drive home. Flint gets a hand inside Silver’s ridiculously tight pants and gropes him while biting his neck. Silver’s incongruously large hands are wandering all over, fingers carding through Flint’s hair, mouth sucking bruises into his skin. 

Luckily, the trip back to Silver’s mansion is quick. The driver stops outside the front, and Flint grabs Silver’s hand, holding tight as they hurry inside. Silver is shrugging out of his shirt as soon as they’re in the door and Flint follows suit, undressing clumsily as he takes the stairs two at a time.

It feels like there’s so much electrical current running through Silver and himself, it’s a wonder it doesn’t sting when they touch. He has a fleeting thought that this is wrong, that Silver is his client and he’s supposed to be a professional. It’s almost enough to make him stop what he’s doing, or at least slow down. But as soon as his bare back hits Silver’s plush bed, he loses any good sense he had left.

They’ve both finally managed to undress completely at last, and Silver is kneeling on top of Flint, sitting naked astride his thighs in all his tanned, tattooed glory. When Flint first met Silver, he remembers thinking that all the tattoos distracted from his natural beauty, but now all he can see is how the lines accentuate and compliment Silver’s muscles, how the colors bring out the deep richness of his skin and the intense blue of his eyes. Even the ‘Always Tired’ tattoos under his eyes are endearing to Flint now, somehow. 

“I been trying to get you to fuck me since the day we met,” Silver informs him matter-of-factly as he leans over to the nightstand and comes back bearing a condom and a bottle of lube. “You take a lotta convincing, huh? Like playing hard to get?” he teases, grinning, and Flint snorts. 

“I don’t play hard to get,” he protests. “I couldn’t believe you actually wanted me, at first. I thought you were just teasing me, or being friendly.”

“I ain’t that friendly,” Silver deadpans, raising an eyebrow at him and chuckling. He leans down and then they’re kissing again, Flint’s hands roaming over Silver’s broad shoulders and down his back, grabbing two generous handfuls of his ass. Silver moans his approval into Flint’s mouth and it drives him wild. 

It’s been some time since Flint’s had sex with anyone; between that and how worked up he feels he’s ever so slightly worried he’ll come as soon as he’s inside Silver. His heart is racing as he gets them both ready, hands trembling. He’s still not entirely sure all this is even real. It might all be some alcohol/drug-induced fever dream. 

Everything around him fades away as his body and Silver’s begin to move together. He’s never felt so connected to another person before and it’s exhilarating and terrifying. Silver is blazing hot to the touch; his skin is like velvet and his raspy voice calling Flint’s name is everything he’s ever wanted. Silver finishes first and Flint comes shortly thereafter, clutching a sweating, cursing Silver to his chest. 

He’s barely cognizant of Silver moving off him and lying down next to him. Between the alcohol, the cocaine, and the exertion, he’s already halfway to passing out. He curls an arm around Silver’s shoulder and buries his face in his hair. The close, musky scent of him is the last thing Flint’s aware of before the world goes dark. 

He startles awake many hours later when he feels something land on the bed near his feet. He reluctantly opens his right eye a crack and sees a strange lanky cat at the end of the bed, staring at him curiously. He doesn’t own a cat. Also, his bed seems to have gotten much bigger. And there’s someone else in it. 

Then it hits him: he slept with Silver. This isn’t his bed, or his house. _Fuck_. He sits up quickly and regrets it, his head pounding already and his stomach churning. He takes a deep breath and opens both eyes, reluctantly surveying his surroundings. Mittens slinks closer to him slowly and plops down between him and Silver, oblivious to Flint’s distress. 

Flint is definitely in Silver’s luxurious - garish, really - master bedroom, and it looks much as he remembers but with some key differences. Ridiculously large bed with rumpled sheets, yes, but also condom wrapper, bottle of lube on the floor, clothes everywhere (some of them Flint’s). There’s no denying it - he and Silver left the club together and had sex. Fell asleep naked, even. Silver himself is still sleeping next to Flint, and judging by the light in the room it’s somewhere around noon. Flint has a moment of panic about being late for work before he remembers it’s Saturday. Thank goodness for small mercies. 

Still, he can’t stay here. He shouldn’t be here at all, shouldn’t have come home with Silver in the first place but it’s too late for that now. He’s about to slip from the bed and sneak out as quietly as possible when he remembers that he drove to the club last night and his car is...well, it’s anyone’s guess, but probably towed by now. He sits back in the bed with a soft curse and weighs his options. 

He can try waking Silver and asking him for help getting his car back and getting home. 

He can find wherever he left his phone and summon a car to take him home, and leave worrying about his own car for later. 

He can see if there’s a decent cup of coffee to be had anywhere in the house, and then try to formulate a plan once he’s properly caffeinated. 

He’s more or less settled on this last plan when Silver stirs next to him, opening his eyes and squinting drowsily up at Flint before breaking into a huge, gleaming grin. He looks utterly, overwhelmingly smug. 

“Finally,” he rasps as he sits up. “Been hoping to wake up next to you for a minute,” he murmurs, looking over at Flint almost coyly.

“You planned this,” Flint says, not particularly surprised. 

“Well, yeah. When I asked last night if you were down to do something stupid, I meant me,” Silver says with a grin so cheeky Flint can’t help but burst out laughing at him. 

Silver looks at Flint with a little smirk on his face, then does a double take suddenly. He licks his thumb and reaches over to rub the tattoo on Flint’s bicep, a small, faded crescent moon. “Holy shit, it’s real! Fancy lawyer man has a teeny tiny tattoo,” he says, laughing raucously like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen. “I ain’t never noticed that before.”

“It’s very old and it’s my only one,” Flint says, chuckling despite his intense headache and general feeling of malaise. “I was younger than you are now, and was feeling impulsive.”

“Bad breakup, huh?” Silver asks, nudging Flint with his shoulder. It’s not fair how good he looks; he just woke up and should feel as rough as Flint does but he’s- beautiful. Damn him. “Ms. Barlow?”

Flint stares at him, wondering how in the world he’s figured that out. 

“Yes. Well. No, but yes, but not exactly. I...we...it was a complicated situation that couldn’t last. It ended and we stayed friends, at least, which I’m eternally grateful for,” he says.

“Mm. Been there,” Silver says, nudging Flint again, affectionately. “You want some breakfast? Coffee, at least? I got an espresso machine I can kinda use.”

“Are you offering to cook for me?” Flint asks, surprised. 

Silver snorts and shakes his head vigorously. “Naw man, you don’t want that. I can’t cook for shit. I got a caterer, though. There’s usually something to eat downstairs by the time I get up. Gates ain’t really my dad but he likes to act like he is; he makes sure somebody’s feeding me,” he explains, then slides to the edge of the bed and stands, making his way nimbly around the room on his right leg. Mittens leaps from the bed and follows Silver, chirping at him loudly until he bends down to scratch under the kitten’s chin. “Man, Mittens, where the fuck did I leave my leg, huh? If I lost that one I’m gonna be pissed, it was brand new. Pricey motherfucker, too.”

“Is that a common occurrence for you? Leaving your leg somewhere?” Flint asks carefully. He knows this isn’t a subject Silver much likes to talk about, but if he’s the one who brought it up, perhaps it’s safe. Flint realizes suddenly what this might mean - Silver trusts him, or at least is willing to show some vulnerability in front of him. That thought makes Flint’s heart race. 

“Common? Naw, but it has happened,” Silver says, turning to look at Flint, one hand on the wall for support. “That’s why I don’t crowd surf at my shows anymore, y’see.”

“You’re joking,” Flint says, aghast. “People really…?”

“Oh yeah, they do. They have. They all just want a piece of me, I guess,” Silver says, a faraway look on his face for a few moments. “There it is! Ha!” he exclaims, grabbing his prosthetic from the floor. He sits on the edge of the bed to put it on, then stands again and plucks a bright orange floral silk robe from the end of the bed, slipping it on before turning to face Flint. “C’mon, fancy, let’s eat. I’m starved. You wanna wear something of mine?”

“That would be nice, yes, thank you. Considering I’ve no idea where my pants went. Or my phone, or my car,” Flint gripes as he gets out of Silver’s bed with a groan of effort. Silver retrieves a long black silk robe from his walk-in closet and helps Flint into it. “Thank you,” Flint murmurs again. 

“Welcome,” Silver says, looking like he very much enjoys the sight of Flint in his robe. He leads the way downstairs, pausing briefly in the hall to let Flint rescue his phone from the pocket of his hastily discarded pants. “Miss anything important?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, it’s dead. I’ll worry about it later,” Flint says, sliding his phone in the pocket of his borrowed robe. He follows Silver down the stairs to the expansive kitchen; it’s all mahogany cabinets and gleaming marble countertops, and Flint feels a stab of envy for how Silver lives, followed by the keen, stinging awareness that no one should really live this way, be this wealthy.

True to Silver’s word there’s already a full spread laid out: fresh fruit, cold cuts, pastries, a platter of scrambled eggs that’s still steaming. Some wonderful person has made a large pot of coffee, which Flint makes a beeline for. The first sip takes the edge off his headache and he sighs in relief, leaning back against the counter. 

“So, I don’t remember where I left my car,” he tells Silver conversationally, examining the coffee mug he’s borrowing. It’s black, with a simple drawing of a white cat with both middle fingers - toes? - raised. 

“Welcome to the club,” Silver jokes around a mouthful of cheese danish, saluting Flint with a mimosa that he’s sure is more champagne than orange juice. “We got time, though. Do you do lawyer stuff on the weekends? Or can you hang out?”

“I don’t usually work weekends, no. I have some time sensitive things to do but I can always go in tomorrow,” Flint says, feeling some kind of way about how clear it is that Silver wants him to stay. He takes another sip of his coffee to steady himself, and grabs an apple from the tray of fruit. Might as well try to eat something. 

“Good, so you’re mine for today,” Silver says, and Flint’s heart skips a beat. “We can worry about your Caddy later. Gates is on top of that shit, he can probably go get it for you. Besides, man, it’s just a car.”

“Easy for you to say, you have fourteen of them,” Flint teases. 

“Fifteen,” Silver snaps back immediately, over-pronouncing the word for added sass: fifteen _uh_. Then he giggles, then bursts into helpless laughter, and Flint joins him. 

“Right, the bidding war you told me about. I had almost forgotten,” Flint says once he can speak again. “I’ll trust your Mr. Gates to handle tracking down my car, then. I should at least charge my phone, though, just in case I did miss anything.” He can vaguely remember seeing several missed notifications on his phone the night before, but he doesn’t remember what they were or from whom. It was probably nothing important. 

“Sure thing. I got all kinds of chargers around here, follow me,” Silver says, and they adjourn together to the sitting room where they had their first conversation. Flint makes himself comfortable on a couch while Silver rummages in a splatter-painted cabinet near the chameleons’ tank at the opposite end of the room. “Here we go,” he says, triumphantly producing a tangled mess of various cords and chargers for all manner of electronics. “Sorry,” he adds as he sits down by Flint, dropping the cord bundle in his lap. 

“It’s alright, I’ll sort this out,” Flint murmurs, setting his coffee and his apple aside and getting to work discerning one cable from another.

Meanwhile, Silver plucks an acoustic guitar from the wall and settles it in his lap, beginning to idly pick out a tune. Despite the fact that Silver is world famous for his songs, Flint finds himself a bit surprised that he can actually, well, play an instrument. 

“If you’re lost you can look and you will find me, time after time,” Silver croons quietly. His voice without all the autotune and post-production is just as good if not quite as flawlessly smooth; it’s got more of the raspy quality that Flint is undeniably attracted to. “If you fall I will catch you, I’ll be waiting, time after time,” Silver sings softly, almost to himself. 

“That’s the song,” Flint realizes. “The first night we went out, you left me a voicemail singing that song,” he says, smiling crookedly at him. “Remember?”

“Naw,” Silver says, and laughs at himself. “But I ain’t surprised. That’s one of the first songs I ever learned to play, that and some Bob Dylan and Nirvana and stuff. That song...I dunno, it makes me think of you for some reason.” He peers at Flint, blue eyes wide, still idly strumming the guitar. 

For a long moment they just look at each other. Flint wants to kiss Silver again, desperately, but he knows it’s a terrible idea for a variety of reasons. Instead, he redoubles his efforts to untangle the cords and finally manages to wrestle one out that looks like it’ll suit his phone. He stands, crosses to a nearby outlet, and plugs it in, staring impatiently at his phone and waiting for the depressingly blank screen to come back to life. At last, it does, and he finally gets another look at the notifications he was too intoxicated to pay attention to the night before. 

Most are from Rackham; a few are from Miranda, asking if he’s seen what Rackham sent and when he’d like to talk about it. From Rackham himself there’s a flurry of texts, a voicemail, and a lengthy email. 

Heart sinking into his stomach, Flint opens the email. Rackham, in his usual loquacious style, outlines what all he’s dug up on Silver. There’s a lot, more than Flint could’ve even imagined. Rackham explains that he reached out to his contacts in other countries and that his associate in Melbourne, Anne, came back to him with the profile of a wanted fugitive from Adelaide with a dozen different aliases. Not a violent criminal but no small-time thief either; he’s wanted for all manner of identity theft, fraud, scams, money laundering, racketeering. Anything and everything to do with money and the covert or overt theft thereof, it seems. He’s thought to be still at large; the last reported sightings of him were in the Caribbean some time ago. He hasn’t been seen in Australia in years. 

There’s a mugshot attached to the email. 

The man in the picture is young, barely an adult, with close-cropped dark curls, tan skin, and very blue eyes. He’s clean shaven, with no visible gold teeth and, perhaps most strikingly, no face tattoos. 

Still. He looks a lot like Silver. Devastatingly so. 

“So? Anything interesting?” Silver asks, and plays a flourish on the guitar before setting it aside. “Wanna go lay out by the pool? C’mon, fancy, you said you didn’t have to work today. Put your phone down, tell Ms. Barlow you’ll hit her up later,” he says, getting up from the couch and walking slowly towards Flint. He pauses a ways away, like he can sense the shift in Flint’s emotions. “...James? Hey. Talk to me.”

“Is this you?” Flint asks very softly, and turns his phone so Silver can see the screen. 

Silver leans in and squints at it, and the color slowly drains from his face. Moving so fast he’s practically a blur, he produces a small, elegant handgun from the garishly painted cabinet and points it squarely at Flint’s chest. 

“Yeah,” he finally says, huskily. He’s trembling. “It is. That’s me.” 

“John,” Flint begins, hands raised in surrender. He can tell Silver is scared, more than angry, and while it’s never pleasant to be on the business end of a firearm it’s also far from the first time Flint has been threatened. “Put it down. Please. Let’s talk.”

Slowly, Silver lowers the gun, but doesn’t set it aside. He looks like he’s about to run, or be sick. 

“Good, thank you. I told you before that if you lied to me I’d find out, and now here we are,” Flint says quietly, with intensity. “I asked you if there was anything else and you said no. You told me no, and I was foolish enough to believe you. This situation we find ourselves in now is why I asked,” Flint hisses. His headache has come back with a vengeance and his stomach is churning. “Do you know what could’ve happened to our case if this got out? No, of course you don’t. But rest assured, it won’t. Not if I can help it.”

“You ain’t gonna turn me in?” Silver asks, looking at once perplexed and relieved. He puts the gun back in its hiding place, finally. “Why?” He sounds suspicious and Flint doesn’t blame him. 

“Several reasons. I hate law enforcement and I don’t cooperate with them any more than is strictly necessary for my work. I also am a practicing criminal defense attorney, meaning, yes, I defend criminals. If I turned in every one of my clients who I knew broke the law, here or anywhere else, I would be out of a job. Who wants a lawyer who’s going to turn them in?” Flint asks, shaking his head. He unplugs his barely charged phone and slips it into his pocket. “I did cocaine with you last night, for Christ’s sake. You have to know I’m not the type to, as you might say, snitch. This isn’t even the worst thing a client of mine has ever done.” 

“Good,” Silver says, his throat working and his hands visibly shaking. He turns away from Flint and snatches a joint off the coffee table, lighting it and taking a long inhale before speaking again. “You still my lawyer, then?” he asks, voice tense with the effort of holding in the smoke. He exhales after another moment, the smoke drifting up from his nostrils. 

“Yes. And only that. This-” he gestures between the two of them “-should never have happened in the first place, and won’t happen again. Last night was a serious lapse in judgment. From now on, you and I are strictly business. I’m going to find Gates; hopefully he’s got my keys or knows where they are so I can get the fuck out of here.”

“This ain’t what I wanted, James, please, come on. Don’t-” Silver starts to say, but Flint has had enough. 

“Goodbye, Mr. Silver. I’ll be in touch with you soon about your trial,” Flint says, then turns and stalks out of the room, feeling only slightly ridiculous because he’s still wearing Silver’s black silk robe. He pauses just outside the sitting room, turning his head slightly so as to regard Silver over his shoulder. “I’m going to collect my things and get dressed. I suggest you stay here, or at the very least stay out of my way.”

Silver says nothing, so Flint stalks away, heading to the main staircase to start collecting his clothes from the night before. Behind him, he can distantly hear Silver picking out a slow and melancholy version of ‘Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright’ on his guitar. It’s tough to ignore, but Flint just manages. He gets dressed and leaves the black silk robe in Silver’s room, then focuses on tracking down Mr. Gates.

He finds him out back, lecturing a small, blonde young man who’s hard at work cleaning Silver’s oversized pool about everything he’s doing wrong. 

“Mr. Gates, a moment?” Flint calls out to him. Once he’s close enough to speak to in a normal tone, Flint goes on: “I need my car, and Mr. Silver said you might have my keys, or at least know where they are.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I have them right here, in fact. I took them off you last night so’s you wouldn’t be tempted to drive home. Can’t have our lawyer getting a DUI!” He chuckles, then produces Flint’s keys from a pocket of his tight snakeskin pants. “Here you go, Mr. Flint. Your car is in the driveway out front, have a good day and we’ll see you again soon,” Gates says, handing Flint the keys and then marching back over to keep yelling at the poor bewildered pool boy. 

Flint has never been happier to leave somewhere. As he slides into the driver’s seat of his Cadillac he texts Miranda back, apologizing for taking so long to reply and making some vague reference to accidentally sleeping in because his phone died and his alarm didn’t go off. Right. 

She texts him back while he’s driving, just a photo and the word ‘really?’ When he gets home and can take a proper look at the photo, he groans. It’s of him and Silver, clearly a screenshot taken from Silver’s Instagram. They’re cozied up together in the VIP section of the club, empty shot glasses on the table in front of them, Silver laughing and Flint grinning, red-faced. He sheepishly replies with an apology and an offer to meet with Miranda the next day, Sunday, so they can get a drink and talk about everything Rackham has discovered about Silver. 

He’s not going to mention the fact that Silver threatened him. It would only complicate things further, and he doesn’t like to worry Miranda. 

Once he’s finally back in his own condo, he takes a long, hot shower and broods about what’s happened and what he’s to do now. He shouldn’t have slept with Silver, clearly; that much is obvious even regardless of anything else. But he did, and so Silver’s lies and betrayal hurt him on two levels - professionally, this new information is a massive headache for Flint and something he perhaps could have handled better if Silver had just been upfront about it. Personally, he’s wounded that Silver would be vulnerable in front of him, act like he trusted him, even be intimate with him, all the while keeping such a big secret. 

He felt as though they were getting truly close; now he feels like he really doesn’t know him at all. 

He spends the rest of the day moping (but definitely not listening to any of Silver’s music, especially not the emotionally compromising ‘I Fall Apart’), then wakes up early Sunday determined to do his job and do it well. His personal feelings about Silver don’t matter - they never have. He meets with Miranda and they have a productive, lengthy discussion on everything they’ve learned about their client and the best way to move forward.

It should feel good to be doing this work, his life’s work, the thing he’s so good at. It doesn’t.

—

[part v: take what you want]

“Mr. Flint calling for Mr. Silver,” Flint says, leaning back in his office chair with his feet up on his desk. He’d dialed Silver’s cell phone number, but it was Gates who picked up. Screening Silver’s calls for him, probably. 

“He’s not up just yet.” 

“What?” Flint glances incredulously at his watch; it’s just past 3 in the afternoon. Honestly. “Well. Hn. Have him call me when he is, I suppose.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Flint. Have a nice day.” 

Flint sighs and hangs up, fidgeting with a small wind-up toy he keeps on his desk purely for that purpose. It’s a plastic walrus with tiny wheels on the bottom, and when he lets it go it zooms across the polished surface of his desk and careens over the edge to the floor. 

Ten minutes later, his office phone rings. 

“James,” Silver says by way of greeting. He sounds breathless and out of it; knowing him he was up for several days and only recently crashed. It’s a wonder he’s awake at all, time of day notwithstanding. “Sorry I missed you, I was, like, dead asleep and Gates had my phone. What’s up, man?”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Silver. Or should I say good morning?” He didn’t intend for that to sound quite as sassy as it did. He clears his throat and presses on. “I have some news about your case.”

“Okay,” Silver says warily, and Flint hears the metallic flick of a lighter in the background. There’s a soft inhale and exhale, then the distinctive sound of a can - probably a Bud Light - opening. Trust Silver to start dulling his senses just as soon as he’s conscious again. 

“It’s good news, don’t worry. I’ve secured a plea deal for you.” He and Miranda have worked hard for this deal and he’s happy with it. Silver will plead guilty to the felony charge and serve at most a few months in prison. It’s much less risky than going to trial, especially considering who Silver is and how hard it has been to try to pull together a truly impartial jury for him. 

“...plea deal?” Silver asks, and Flint can almost hear how hard he’s frowning. “Like, I say I’m guilty so they give me less time? But I ain’t guilty, you know that. Not this time. It’s not even my gun, man. I don’t wanna go to prison, especially not on some bullshit charge for shit I didn’t even do.”

“It’s the best option for you,” Flint says as patiently as he can. “Miranda and I have discussed it at length and we don’t think going to trial is in your best interest for a multitude of reasons. Least of all that you’re a celebrity, and a trial would be a complete media circus.” 

“So you punishing me now, huh? You said you’d keep me out of prison and now you wanna do me like this? The fuck am I even paying you for,” he snaps hoarsely, his voice low and angry, and Flint winces. He can hear him take several long swallows of beer. “Naw, fuck you and fuck your fucking stupid plea deal. I’m not going down like that. Ever.” He sighs noisily, like he’s disappointed. “We can talk more later if you wanna but I ain’t about to change my mind. No fucking plea deal, no goddamn prison time. Not even a couple months. Period.”

Before Flint can get another word out, Silver curses at him one more time, with finality, and hangs up. 

“You fucking incorrigible twit,” Flint seethes to the dial tone, then sets the phone down and stands slowly from his desk, stretching, trying to shake off the irritation. He walks across the hall to Miranda’s office, leaning against the doorframe. “He won’t take it.”

“Hm?” she asks, looking up from her computer. “Silver? He won’t take the plea deal? What in the- _James_. You promised me you’d get him to take it. All he has to do is say no, and now you want to go to trial?” she asks incredulously. “It’s a felony weapons charge and he’s a famous rapper who’s well-known for bragging about his expansive gun collection. There’s no such thing as a fair trial for him here. He could go to prison for years! For the rest of his life, even, if they find out about everything else. He could be ruining any chance he has of a decent future.”

“I know, I know. I tried to tell him all that, but he’s very adamant that he won’t go to prison and he won’t plead guilty to something he didn’t do. He has a point. The gun isn’t even registered to him,” Flint murmurs. He’s very angry at Silver for rejecting the deal they worked so hard to get him, but he also can’t help feeling a smidgen proud of Silver for being so uncompromising.

“Well. If he wants a trial, I suppose you’d better prepare him for one,” Miranda sighs, rubbing her temples and then looking up at Flint. “Does he own any suits that don’t look like they were made from the curtains of the Moulin Rouge?”

Flint snorts. “I’ll set up a meeting with him to prep him for the trial. Please let the DA know we won’t be going forward with the plea deal.” 

“I’m not talking to Teach again. The last time we met with him, he kept looking down my blouse,” Miranda mutters, scowling at the memory. “You call him.”

“I don’t want to talk to him either, you know what he calls me behind my back,” Flint says, lip curling in distaste. 

They have the idea at the same time. Flint looks at Miranda with one eyebrow raised and she nods conspiratorially. 

“Billy!” he barks. “Call District Attorney Edward Teach and let him know we’ll be going ahead with the John Silver trial. The plea deal is off the table,” he says. 

“Yes sir!” Billy answers from the front desk. Flint feels a little guilty for making him deal with Teach, but not enough to do it himself instead. 

“I’ll go call Silver back and see about an appointment for this week,” Flint says to Miranda, then retreats to his office. When he tries to call Silver, he gets Gates again instead, and talks him into letting Flint come over that Friday so he can walk Silver through basic trial prep and - perhaps more importantly - help him choose an outfit that says ‘not guilty’ or at least ‘not guilty of this particular crime this time.’

Later that week, Flint finds himself driving to Silver’s mansion in Coral Gables yet again, feeling a strong sense of deja vu. He parks in the driveway and is met at the front door by Gates, who offers him something to drink (this time Flint requests a vodka tonic; he has a feeling it’s going to be a trying afternoon) and promises him Silver will be with him shortly. 

Flint is almost halfway through his drink when he hears Silver’s feet on the stairs. He looks up and there’s the man himself: barefoot, dressed exceedingly casually in a faded yellow and orange tie dye crop top and pants printed all over with bright yellow bananas. His hair is pulled back in a messy bun and he looks like he hasn’t slept in some time. 

“Hey, man,” Silver says warily, producing a joint from behind his ear and a lighter from his pocket. He sparks it and takes a long drag. 

“Good afternoon,” Flint says, rattling the ice in his glass. “Shall we?” he asks, gesturing to the sitting room. 

“Let’s just go up to my room.”

“Mr. Silver, I don’t think that’s-”

“We gotta pick what I’m wearing for this bullshit, right? Might as well do that while we talk. Get it over with quicker,” Silver says, the look on his face unreadable. He has a new tattoo, Flint realizes - a sword down the right side of his face, spanning vertically from his hairline by his ear all the way down to the start of his scruffy facial hair along his jaw. It probably won’t do much to help convince the jury he isn’t a dangerous felon, but Flint can’t do anything about that now. 

“Right. I’ll follow you,” Flint says. Silver turns wordlessly and makes his way back up the staircase. There’s a slight hitch in his gait that concerns Flint, but he knows better than to ask what’s wrong. 

“So I gotta wear a suit, then, huh?” Silver asks as they step into his master suite. “Lucky for you I got a lot of those.” It’s even messier than it was the last time Flint saw it, and the blackout curtains are drawn, making it seem cavernous. Mittens is snoozing nearby on a pile of discarded clothes, nearly invisible against the leopard print coat he’s decided to snuggle himself into. 

“Yes, a suit is probably your best bet. Nothing too loud, I’d strongly suggest gray or black if you have it. Your shirt can be a color, but no patterns unless it’s something very subtle. You’ll want to pull your hair back - bun or low ponytail, no braids - and either take your nail varnish off your nails or repaint them so it isn’t chipped,” he says. He hesitates before going on; he’s not used to getting in this many words in sequence around Silver. “It’s in your interest to look as- nondescript, as possible. The judge for our trial, Judge Woodes Rogers, is very traditional.”

“Is that lawyer speak for ‘he’s kind of a dick’?” Silver asks, pulling a few suits and shirts from his closet. 

“Yes,” Flint answers without hesitation. “Now, is there anything we can do about your gold teeth?”

“Naw. They’re mostly caps. Bonded to my real teeth,” Silver explains from the depths of the closet. 

“...mostly?” Flint echoes curiously, fidgeting with his watch. He sips his drink. 

“Some of ‘em are just legit gold teeth, man. You get punched in the face enough, you lose a tooth or three,” Silver says, glancing over his shoulder at Flint. “Anyway, with the caps, a dentist would have to take ‘em off for me and I’m not doing that just so some random people will find me less…” He trails off, apparently at a rare loss for words, and gestures vaguely to himself. He holds up a gray suit for Flint’s consideration, alongside a light blue pinstripe shirt. “How’s this?” he asks. 

“That will do just fine. I like the pinstripes,” Flint says softly. 

“Is it a boring enough look for you?” Silver asks, looking at him challengingly, like he’s trying to get a rise out of Flint. 

“Do you think I look boring?” Flint shoots back, unable to help himself. Damn. Coming to Silver’s house was so stupid. He should’ve just insisted Silver come to his office, where there’s less privacy and not so much loaded history. 

“No,” Silver says after a long pause, and grumbles something to himself that Flint can’t quite make out. He sits on his bed with a soft hiss of pain and sparks his joint again, peering at Flint through half-shut eyes. “So what’s this trial gonna be like anyway? You’re my attorney, walk me through it.”

“How much do you already know?” Flint asks. “I can go into whatever level of detail you need.” He’s honestly not sure how far into the legal process Silver’s gotten before, given his status as a fugitive, and he isn’t inclined to ask too many questions, especially since the last time it came up he had a gun pulled on him.

“This is my first felony trial in this country so explain away, fancy. What else am I paying you for, huh?” Silver murmurs. 

“Alright. Well, first there’ll be the opening statements. The prosecutor - he’s the District Attorney, his name is Edward Teach, and he too is kind of a dick - will speak first, probably try to make you sound like a danger to society and use anything he has on you to convince the jury you are guilty. Then I get to make my opening statement, where I’ll tell them you’re a sweet, harmless little lamb who helps old ladies cross the street,” he says dryly. He thinks he catches Silver smiling at that, but it’s so fleeting he can’t be sure. “Then Teach will call his witnesses - the cops who searched and arrested you that night - and question them. I can also ask his witnesses my own questions, which I will do, and trust me when I say I won’t I won’t go easy on them.” He polishes off the last of his cocktail. “Then, once the questioning is over and the prosecution rests, I’m going to ask Judge Rogers for an acquittal.”

“What’s that mean?” Silver asks, patting his lap so Mittens, newly awakened from his laundry pile nap, will hop up. He does, and Silver pets him idly, crooning affectionately as he does. It’s delightfully distracting, seeing him be so gentle and sweet. Flint presses on. 

“It means I’m going to say Teach hasn’t done enough to prove that you’re guilty, because I already know he can’t. There isn’t enough evidence for what you’ve been charged with, plain and simple. The gun is registered to someone else and he can’t prove that you knew it was there. If he can’t prove that, he can’t prove you had intent to use it, and he’s got no case against you,” Flint explains patiently, idly wishing he could get another vodka tonic without having to either find Gates or get it himself. 

“So then they’ll just...let me go?” Silver asks, a note of hope in his voice so earnest it makes Flint’s heart clench. 

“As long as Judge Rogers grants my request for the acquittal, yes. He can always deny a request like that, but I’m confident he won’t. There’s no case against you for this, really. You were overcharged, and it’s embarrassing for them. They should never have come after you with a felony charge. They’re just trying to make an example of you. It’s more common than you’d think, especially in high-profile cases like yours.”

“Does this Teach asshole get to ask me anything?” Silver asks. “Like, I don’t have to testify, right?”

“You don’t have to, no. The burden isn’t on me or you to prove you didn’t do this; it’s on them to prove you did. If all goes according to plan, there’s no reason for you to go up on the stand. The only reason you might want to is because sometimes jurors might think you’re guilty of something if you don’t testify and defend yourself. But that’s not going to happen here,” Flint says. 

“How d’you know that for sure, man? This sounds like a...like a long shot,” Silver says, frowning up at Flint, his brow furrowed. Mittens peers at him too, looking at least as worried as Silver does. For the first time, Flint notices the cat’s bright green leather collar; it has a gold heart-shaped tag that’s engraved with the name ‘Rev. Murder Mittens.’ Flint has a fleeting, semi-hysterical thought about whether or not the cat is actually ordained, and if so, in what denomination.

“Asking for an acquittal is a little risky,” Flint concedes after he manages to pull his thoughts together again. “But it’s the best plan we’ve got. You didn’t want the plea deal - which I understand - and trust me, you don’t want this in the hands of that jury if we can avoid it.”

“Why? Didn’t you help pick ‘em?” Silver asks, and leans over to his nightstand to retrieve a red plastic cup of who-knows-what. He takes several long sips, which for most people might indicate it’s water or at least not alcohol, but with Silver means no such thing. 

“Well, yes, but I wasn’t doing the jury selection all by myself. I did my best, but between the people who don’t know who you are and the people who do but don’t like you...it would be difficult for you to get a fair judgment from them,” Flint says, frowning. 

“Makes sense, I guess,” Silver says, sounding resigned. “We done here then?” he asks, looking blearily at Flint. “Believe it or not, I got shit to do. Working on my new album, actually. Got a tour coming up, too, so long ‘s I don’t go to prison.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. We can be done for today, then. I’m going to keep going over everything with a fine tooth comb and see if I can find anything else to help our case. I’ll let you know what the trial date is, once it’s been set, which should be fairly soon,” Flint says. “Do you have any other questions for me?”

“Naw, you can go,” Silver says, not looking at Flint. He’s focused on the cat in his lap instead, scratching under his chin. He couldn’t be making it more clear that he’s done with Flint. 

“Alright,” Flint sighs, and heads towards the door of the bedroom. He’s almost out of the room when he hears Silver call out to him. 

“James? Wait,” he says, and Flint hears him curse under his breath as he gets up from the bed. 

Flint turns to face him, looking down into his eyes. He looks pale and tired, his pupils blown wide. It’s clear he’s been working too hard, staying up too late, keeping himself at least low-level buzzed all the time. Flint is worried about him, and also wants to hug and kiss him until he feels better. 

“You’re gonna fix all this, right?” Silver asks. He puts a hand on Flint’s cheek; his palm is cool and clammy. “I can’t do it alone and this is all I fucking have, man. You don’t know what it was like for me before. I can’t go back. Please,” he whispers intensely. It looks like it physically pains him to be asking so plaintively for Flint’s help. His jaw is clenched tight and he’s trembling. 

Against his better judgment, Flint pulls Silver in close, embracing him. He’s never felt so compelled by a client or a case before, but Silver is extraordinary. He feels him go limp in his arms and holds him up, supporting most of his weight until Silver pulls himself together and stands up straight again after a minute. 

“I’m going to do my best,” Flint assures him. He clears his throat and lets his arms drop from around Silver’s waist. Just like that, the raw vulnerability he saw so clearly a moment before slips from Silver and he inhabits his unbothered persona once again. 

“Right, I mean, that’s like. What I pay you for, so. Fuck it up, lawyer man,” Silver says with a hiccuping laugh. 

“Fuck it up,” Flint agrees with a little chuckle. “I’m assuming you mean that as a good thing.”

“Naw, I mean make a complete shitshow of my felony weapons possession trial and send me to prison til I’m as old as you, damn,” Silver teases him, a small but genuine grin on his face. “Let me know when the big day is, man, and I’ll be there. I’ll even dress nice, just for you.”

“I will. Take care of yourself, John, please.” He looks at him for several long moments, then makes himself turn and leave the bedroom before he can be persuaded to stay any longer. 

He leaves Silver’s mansion and goes back to the office to keep working on the case. He’s sure he’s seen everything, gone over everything more times than he can count, but if there’s any way to be a thousand percent sure Judge Rogers will grant the acquittal, he has to find it. 

“How’d the meeting go with Silver?” Miranda calls to him from her office as he’s passing by on the way to his own. He pauses outside the door, then steps inside, settling into the chair opposite her. 

“It went well, I think. I, ah, changed the plan a bit as I was talking him through the trial,” he says, and grabs a stress ball off her desk to fidget with. It’s shaped like a chicken, and its eyes bug out when he squeezes it. Ridiculous thing. 

“Changed the plan...how?” she asks, looking at him keenly. She knows him far too well and sometimes - like right now - it’s downright unnerving. 

“Mm. I’m going to ask Judge Rogers for an acquittal,” he says, not looking up at her. 

“You’re going to _what_?” she asks, staring at him. “You’re aware of how risky that is, are you not? What on earth made you decide to do that? I thought your plan was to have Silver testify, call Gates as the star witness- an acquittal request, seriously?”

Flint sighs, setting the stress chicken on Miranda’s desk and picking up a small Rubix cube instead. He leans forward, his fingers working the cube as he looks into Miranda’s wide brown eyes. 

“You weren’t there today, you didn’t see him. He’s a wreck, Miranda. He can’t testify, and if he does he’s liable to go off the rails on the stand and lose the case for himself,” he explains. “Teach is going to try to make John look dangerous and unstable, and if we put him up there, scared out of his wits and running on no sleep and any number of illicit substances, Teach is going to succeed and we’re going to lose.”

“Are you sure this isn’t just you trying to protect him because of your feelings for him?” she asks bluntly. He flinches, but it’s a fair question. 

“I don’t have feelings for him. I let things go too far with him that one night, yes, but we have an understanding now that it’s strictly business between us,” he says, and it tastes like a lie but he hopes it sounds like the truth. “I’m just doing what I think is best for the client, same as I would for anyone else. He shouldn’t have to testify; he’s been overcharged and Teach has no case. An acquittal makes sense, and it’s easier to ask Rogers for that than it is to try and convince a jury that John - with his face tattoos and gold teeth and lyrics about violence - is not a threat.”

“I see.” Miranda exhales on a long sigh, shaking her head at Flint. “I just hope you’re right in thinking that Teach’s case is so flimsy. What proof do you have?”

“I’m going to go review the body cam footage from the police on the night in question again and see if there’s anything I missed,” Flint says. “If I can make those cops look like bumbling idiots when I cross examine them, that might be enough.”

“Good luck,” Miranda says sincerely. “Let me know if you find anything, but don’t work too late.”

“I’ll do my best,” Flint assures her, retreating to his office to start watching and re-watching the footage. 

Several long hours later, on his umpteenth rewatch, he finally sees the puzzle pieces click into place. He scribbles frantic notes on a notepad, then takes the tape back to the beginning to watch again and confirm what he saw. 

It’s dark outside by the time he finally leaves, but he feels wide awake. He’s going to win this, he’s certain of it. He texts Miranda about his findings and briefly considers reaching out to Silver, but decides against it. The less contact between them, he figures, the better. 

In fact, he doesn’t speak with Silver again until several weeks later, when he calls him from the office on a Friday afternoon to let him know their trial date has been set. He’s leaning back in his desk chair with his feet up, a half-melted vodka tonic in his free hand. 

“James, hey,” Silver answers. He certainly sounds better than he did the last time Flint saw him, but his facade is usually so smooth it’s impossible to tell how he really feels. “What up, fancy? Got any good news?”

“That depends on your perspective, I suppose. We have a trial date and it’s a week from Monday,” he says, then takes a sip of his drink. 

“Cool, I’ll be there with bells on, or whatever,” Silver jokes. “So. How’s uh...your other lawyer stuff going?” It’s clear he wants to keep talking, so Flint indulges him.

“It’s going fine. How about your new album? Made any progress?” he asks.

“Oh yeah. Couple bangers on there I’m pretty sure, and I should have a release date soon. Gates wants to start booking the tour for it but I don’t wanna jinx things with the trial, so I asked him to hold off. Hopefully once you save my ass from the noose I can, y’know, start really planning,” he says. There’s the quiet click of a lighter, then Silver inhales and slowly exhales. 

“That’s good to hear, and I’m sure you’ll be planning the tour in no time. Any questions for me?” Flint asks. 

“Naw, I’m good. I’ll press my suit and meet you at the courthouse a week from Monday, man,” he replies. 

“Alright. See you then, John,” Flint says, and hangs up.

He feels an odd longing; a part of him would’ve liked to see Silver in person rather than just speak to him on the phone. Just to be sure he’s actually feeling better. That’s not Flint’s concern, though, and he sternly reminds himself of this fact before downing the rest of his drink and packing up to go home. He just has to get through the rest of the week, and keep it together for Silver’s trial. 

The day of the trial, he wakes up before sunrise. He feels nervous, which is unusual for him - he’s been doing this for so long, even the most important case tends to feel almost routine. But somehow, this one feels different. Hits harder, as Silver might say. He showers and dresses (black Balmain suit, crimson silk tie, hair pulled half-back, his favorite watch on his left wrist) and finds himself ready far too early, even by his standards. He sighs and wastes time on his phone, idly scrolling through social media and pretending he’s not doing it just to stalk Silver. Again. His Instagram gives away nothing Flint didn’t already know; it looks as though he was out partying as recently as two nights before, red plastic cup in hand as he dances under the flashing lights of some club or another. In some of the photos he’s wearing a jacket printed with ‘livin fast, dying last’ on the back.

Flint wills himself to put his phone down, then goes over his notes again and makes a few adjustments. He has a cup of coffee but feels too nervous to eat any breakfast. He has a second cup of coffee instead. 

At last, it’s time to go. He leaves his condo and drives to the courthouse in silence, feeling like any music he could listen to would just make him more keyed up. He parks and is making his way to the steps at the front of the courthouse when he’s suddenly confronted by a wall of paparazzi. 

Ah, yes. He should’ve anticipated this part of representing a celebrity, but it had slipped his mind. It’s far from the first time he’s dealt with the press at a trial, so he just keeps his head down and his sunglasses on, and politely declines to comment on anything except to confirm who he is and why he’s there. He’s managed to get to the top of the stairs relatively unruffled - and then he sees Silver. Standing there in the early morning sun, grinning, gleaming. 

Definitely not wearing the outfit they agreed on. 

Instead of the muted gray suit and blue shirt he’d shown Flint before, he’s really outdone himself with this look: his suit is white with narrow stripes of varying size in dark purple, teal, pink, bright yellow, and neon green. His shirt - it looks like silk - matches the seashell pink stripes in his suit. He isn’t wearing a tie and his shirt is open at the throat, showing off a massive stack of gold chains. He’s got his hair loose around his shoulders and is wearing more rings than one would think possible. He’s got a Rolex on his wrist that Flint estimates cost upwards of $50,000. 

He looks up when Flint approaches and waves to him enthusiastically, like they’re old friends meeting up for brunch. Fantastic. 

“James! Long time no see, man!” he calls out. 

As soon as Flint is close enough, he takes Silver gently by the elbow - hearing the cameras clicking frantically around him - and steers him into the courthouse, taking him beyond where the paparazzi can follow. 

“What the fuck is this,” he demands quietly, and even to his own ears he sounds tired. Already. 

“What’s what? Oh! I couldn’t remember what we agreed on, man, sorry. I know you said something about pinstripes though, so,” he says, gesturing to himself. His nails are painted a light, glittering champagne color. “Sick, right? It’s bespoke St. Laurent.”

“It’s the loudest outfit I’ve ever seen in court, and I’m a lawyer in Miami,” Flint deadpans. “But you don’t have time to go home and change, and the press has definitely already seen you, so here we are, I suppose.”

“We look like one of those odd couple memes where like, one’s goth and one’s not,” Silver jokes, nudging Flint. “Aw, c’mon. Don’t give me that look, it’s funny! You look good, too. Professional. Is that Balmain?”

“Yes, it is. Thank you,” Flint sighs. “Let’s just go. Wouldn’t do to be late.”

He takes Silver to their assigned courtroom, and they don’t have to wait long before Judge Rogers arrives and things get underway. Flint takes a deep breath, looking sideways at Silver. For a moment, despite the designer outfit and the flashy accoutrements, Silver looks for all in the world like what he really is - a young man facing the possibility of a felony conviction and years in prison. Just as quickly as the frightened look appears on his face, though, it’s gone, replaced by an easy, confident smile. 

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Woodes Rogers,” the bailiff says, and Flint stands dutifully. He can hear Silver take a shaky breath next to him. 

“Be seated,” Judge Rogers says as he sits down. “At this time the Court calls State of Florida vs. John Silver, Case Number 36 TI 410. Will the parties state their appearances for the record, please,” he says, shuffling some papers on his desk. 

Across the aisle, Teach stands, bracing his hands on the table in front of him. He’s wearing a suit that was probably expensive but fits like it’s cheap, and he has reading glasses on top of his head, almost hidden by his wavy salt-and-pepper hair. He’s a familiar sight to Flint, who finds him absolutely insufferable. 

“Good morning, your honor. The State of Florida appears by Miami-Dade County District Attorney Edward Teach, lead counsel.” He glances over at Flint, cocking an eyebrow smarmily at him and Silver. “John Silver appears in person. He’s represented by James Flint, immediately to my left.”

“Good morning,” Flint says, and hears Silver murmur the same. “I’m James Flint, esquire, of the Barlow & Flint law firm. I’m here today representing John Silver.”

“Very good,” Judge Rogers says. “Are we ready to proceed? Or were there any preliminary matters?” he asks. 

“Ready to proceed, your honor,” Teach says. 

“Your opening statement, then, please, Mr. Teach,” Judge Rogers says, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back slightly in his chair, peering down his nose at them. Flint is fairly sure one of the reasons Rogers became a judge was so that he could get paid to look at people that way. 

“Celebrities. We know they’re not like the rest of us, but I think we’d all agree they ought to be held to the same standards,” Teach begins, stepping out from behind his table to pace the floor in front of the jury box. Flint can barely keep from rolling his eyes. “People of the jury, I ask you: would it be okay with you if someone had a concealed, loaded gun in your car? On your flight? On your child’s school bus?

“What John Silver did when he brought that loaded gun on his bus with intent to use it was incredibly reckless and dangerous. Then, when he got caught, he tried to hide it from law enforcement. He could have killed someone! This isn’t the first time Mr. Silver has flouted the law, either, and it’s clear from his interactions with the police on the night of his arrest that he has no respect for the law or for the basic safety of those around him. In his music, he brags about his vast weapons collection, and even threatens to shoot anyone who crosses him. Is this the type of person that we, the fine people of Florida, want walking free? Do we really want John Silver to be able to continue to make his music about drugs and violence, performing on TV, influencing our young people? I know I certainly don’t. So it’s your duty today to find him guilty, to make sure this dangerous criminal is locked up where he can’t hurt anyone. It’s the only reasonable thing to do.” He stares hard at Silver, who doesn’t so much as twitch. “Thank you. The prosecution rests, your honor.” Teach returns to his table, sitting down and looking rather smug. 

Flint can’t wait to wipe the floor with him. 

“Thank you, Mr. Teach. Your opening remarks, Mr. Flint?” Judge Rogers requests, leaning forward slightly in his seat. 

Flint stands, clasping his hands behind his back and stepping out so he can address the jury. He stands still in front of the box, though, refusing to pace and gesticulate like Teach. He can see Miranda out of the corner of his eye, sitting near the back of the courtroom, and knowing that she’s there gives him that much more confidence. 

“People of the jury, Mr. Teach wants you to believe that John Silver is dangerous because the police found a gun on his bus. Pardon me - not even his bus. Not a bus he owns or was driving at the time, merely one he hired for his cross country tour. When you’re driving a friend somewhere, when you’re taking public transportation - do you know what’s in everyone’s backpack or handbag? There were a total of eleven people traveling on that tour bus, including Mr. Silver and his manager Hal Gates, to whom the weapon in question is actually registered. I ask you, how is it fair that Mr. Silver was charged with felony possession when the gun isn’t even registered to him, and in fact isn’t even a model of weapon that he owns? All of the firearms he owns are registered to him and he is by all accounts a very responsible gun owner. Put yourself in his position, for a moment. If you carpooled with some coworkers and one of them had, say, a switchblade knife - would it make sense for the rest of you in that car to be charged with possession of that blade? No, of course not, because it wasn’t yours. 

“Furthermore, the fact that Mr. Silver is a musician who mentions weapons and illicit substances in his work is irrelevant here, and shouldn’t be counted as evidence of his guilt in this matter. If Mr. Teach is really trying to say that one’s lyrics are definitive proof of criminal activity, we’d best go after, I don’t know, Reba McEntire for sex work, or investigate Tom Jones for murder,” he says, and can hear some of the jury chuckling. “Joking aside, however, the fact is that Mr. Teach and the state of Florida have no case against my client Mr. Silver. There’s no proof at all of what he was charged with, and he doesn’t deserve to be found guilty. Period.” He pauses to let that sink in. “The defense rests, thank you,” he says, and paces slowly back to his table, sitting down. His heart is racing but he feels good, confident. 

Flint watches as Teach calls and questions his first witness - one of the two officers involved in searching and arresting Silver, a man by the name of Singleton. Teach asks him the expected questions about where he was, what happened, and why he and the other officer, Dufresne, searched Silver’s bus in the first place. It’s not a bad line of questioning, but it’s certainly not enough to prove a felony charge. 

When it’s Flint’s turn to cross examine Singleton, he approaches the witness stand and puts on his reading glasses, studying the officer. He’s in uniform, a big, broad man with a shaved head and a wicked scar on his face. He looks, in a word, tough. 

“So, Officer Singleton. You were the one who found the gun on the night in question, correct?” Flint asks, making a show of glancing down at his notes. 

“Yeah, yes, I found it,” he says. 

“A .40 caliber Smith & Wesson in a Louis Vuitton bag, if I’m reading this correctly, and you say the bag had been tossed under a seat on the bus by Mr. Silver,” Flint says. 

“Yeah,” Singleton says, frowning like he’s trying to understand why Flint is asking such basic questions. 

“I’m just making sure I have my facts straight, thank you. What time was it exactly when you found the gun, Officer? Walk me through the timeline of the evening in your own words, if you please,” Flint says. 

“Okay, well. We were at the show in Orlando that night for security purposes and had spoken to Mr. Silver himself before the show. He was hostile towards us, had a bit of an attitude, real piece of work. During his show performed that, uh, that one song - it’s in the report, I won’t say the name here. But anyway, after the show concluded around midnight, myself and Officer Dufresne noticed a distinct smell of marijuana coming from Mr. Silver’s tour bus, which gave us probable cause to search it. So we did, and that’s when I found the gun Mr. Silver had hidden under the seat, at 12:45 in the morning,” he says. 

“12:45 in the morning, you’re sure of that?” Flint asks, narrowing his eyes at him. 

“Yes,” Singleton says, frowning again. “Reasonably sure.”

“Mm. I’d like to direct the attention of the jury to this body cam footage from the night in question. This is from Officer Singleton’s camera. I would ask you all to pay close attention to the time stamp in the bottom right hand corner,” Flint says, picking a remote up from his table and turning on a TV that’s facing the jury. 

It flickers to life, and a low resolution tape begins playing. It’s Silver as viewed through a body camera, poorly lit, looking sweaty and tired, wearing the same clothes he performed in - a baggy dark green shirt and tight black pants. He’s got a glowing cigarette in one hand and looks like he’s had about enough of the cops and their bullshit. 

“I’m telling you, man - Officer - there’s nothing in there. Y’all are searching me for no good reason, just fucking with me like before,” he sighs. The time stamp in the bottom right corner ticks slowly from 12:44 to 12:45 as Silver speaks. “Watch, you won’t find nothing.”

“Won’t find _anything_?” Singleton asks smarmily. “We heard your little song earlier, that was nice. Real nice.”

“Oh you did, huh? Good. Fucking glad you did, I did it special just for you.” He takes a drag off his cigarette. “Whatever, man. I’m tired and I don’t want no trouble, please just let me on,” Silver says. Flint pauses the tape. 

“Now that’s interesting, Officer. To me it looks as though at 12:45 you’re busy keeping Mr. Silver out of his bus while your associate Mr. Dufresne searches it - or at least I’m assuming that’s what he was doing while you were harassing my client,” Flint says. 

“Objection,” Teach blurts. “Phrasing.”

“Fine.” Flint exhales hard out of his nose. “Pardon me, while you were _interviewing_ my client, is that better?” he asks, throwing a glare at Teach. 

“Okay, so what? Maybe it wasn’t 12:45 exactly when we found it, but we did find a gun on the bus, so,” Singleton says, shrugging.

“True, you did, but you also claim to have seen Mr. Silver throw the bag containing the gun under the seat yourself, indicating he knew it was there, meaning perhaps he was planning to use it, leading to the felony weapons possession charge. But. On this tape he says to you ‘please let me on,’ not ‘please let me back on,’ which would seem to indicate he hasn’t been on the tour bus since before his show, which is well before you searched the bus,” Flint says. “So now not only were you not on the bus when you claim you were, you couldn’t possibly have seen my client move or even touch the Louis Vuitton bag, since he was nowhere near it at the time.” 

“I wasn’t...that, that is, I mean-” Singleton stammers, looking nervous. 

“Do you want to know what I think happened, Officer?” Flint cuts him off. “I think you searched the bus before Mr. Silver came back from his performance. I think you had no good reason to search it, and I think you know that. I think you didn’t find anything good on the first go-around, so you made your subordinate Officer Dufresne search again and you made it clear to him that he had better find something. You may have threatened him with a punishment, or even a demotion, if he didn’t find anything. So you were biding your time outside the bus, acting as a lookout while Officer Dufresne did the dirty work of illegally searching the bus, and that’s when Mr. Silver returned and you turned on your body camera to record your interaction with him. You were expecting him to be ‘hostile’ again, as you put it. Instead, he was bewildered and exhausted, and you kept him from his own bed while Officer Dufresne looked for literally anything you and your department could use as justification to arrest him. Because Mr. Silver said, loudly and repeatedly, ‘fuck the police.’ Because he said that in front of thousands of screaming fans, who agreed with him. Because he knew you heard it, and was glad you did. Because that? That made you _mad_. So you targeted him, you did whatever it took to get him in trouble. Am I right?”

“Objection!” Teach shouts. 

“Overruled,” Judge Rogers snaps. “Answer the question, Officer.”

“I…” Singleton scowls, his lips pressed together in a thin, angry line. “I plead the fifth,” he growls after a long silence. 

“No further questions,” Flint pronounces brightly, and returns to his seat. 

Visibly shaken, Teach questions his next witness, Officer Dufresne, who looks wide-eyed and twitchy the whole time he’s on the stand. His nerves don’t do much for his credibility, Flint notes with satisfaction. He declines to cross examine Dufresne himself, since he feels like it would honestly be overkill - he made his point about the incompetence and bias of the department when he questioned Singleton; no need to be a complete ass about it. 

“The prosecution rests, your honor,” Teach says, taking a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit coat and mopping his brow. Flint is delighted; it’s always a good day in court when he can make the DA sweat. 

Flint stands, looking up at Judge Rogers, then around the courtroom at the witnesses, at Teach, at the jury. He turns briefly to regard Miranda over his shoulder, then looks down at Silver, who peers up at him with those wide blue eyes and nods, confident. It’s clear he trusts Flint to pull this off. 

Showtime. 

“Your honor, given everything we’ve seen here today, I sincerely do not believe the prosecution presented enough evidence to prove the case against my client Mr. Silver. Therefore, I am requesting an acquittal in this matter,” he says, and hears murmurs of surprise around him as soon as he utters the word ‘acquittal.’

Judge Rogers sighs softly and rubs one hand over his chin, looking thoughtful. He glances between Teach and Flint, his brow furrowing. 

“Granted,” he says simply after what feels like an eternity to Flint. “I agree with you, Mr. Flint, that Mr. Teach has presented insufficient evidence in this case, and that the evidence he has presented is...questionable, at best. Mr. Silver, you are hereby acquitted of this charge, and you are free to go. People of the jury, you are dismissed, thank you for your service. This case has concluded.” He smacks his gavel down twice and then stands, gathering his things to leave. 

“Fuck yeah!” Silver shouts before Flint can stop him, and then he’s hugging Flint so hard his ribs creak. “Thank you thank you, holy shit, _thank_ you. Fucking hell, man! You’re amazing. You did the damn thing! Let’s go, let’s get fucked up!” he exclaims, flushed with excitement, his eyes bright. 

For a moment, Flint strongly considers going out for a celebratory drink with Silver, even though it’s barely afternoon, even though he knows he shouldn’t. He knows without a doubt what will happen if he does, and it’s just not something the responsible side of him is comfortable with. 

If he ever were to kiss Silver again, he would want them both to be reasonably sober for it, and that doesn’t seem to be in the cards here, now. 

“I’d love to, but I really ought to go back to my office. I do have other cases I need to work on. I’ll take a rain check, though. Maybe we can go out for a coffee or something, before you go on your tour,” he suggests. Silver looks disappointed and it hurts, but Flint knows it’s for the best. 

“Yeah, man, sure. I’ll hit you up. Thank you again, James, sincerely. You saved me up there. The way you went after that cop? Holy _shit_ , remind me not to get on your bad side,” Silver says, chuckling. He hugs Flint again, more gently this time but with just as much feeling, and then they leave the courtroom together. 

They answer a few questions for the press on the courthouse steps, the Florida sun shining down hot on them, Silver grinning like he just won the lottery. Flint can feel himself smiling, too. He can only imagine what the paparazzi photos will look like - Silver in his candy-colored pinstripes, Flint in his serious black ensemble, both of them beaming. 

He parts ways with Silver at the curb, as Silver is hustled into a waiting Bentley by Gates, who appeared out of thin air just after the trial ended. Flint leans in the window to say his goodbyes, promising to see Silver again soon. 

He knows he’s lying. It will be for the best if they don’t see each other again - they’re like gasoline and matches. He isn’t Silver’s attorney anymore, true, but any relationship between them beyond platonic friendship would still be inappropriate, given their history and all he knows about who Silver really is. 

And he doesn’t trust Silver to be willing to just be his friend. 

He retreats to his car alone, and for lack of anything better to do, he goes to the office. He can’t focus on much, and Miranda soon appears in the doorway of his office with a bottle of champagne and two glasses, so he accepts a glass and quietly celebrates with her. It’s not the rager that Silver probably had in mind, but it feels nice nonetheless. He’s proud of himself and Miranda, of their work together and how skillfully they kept Silver from being punished for something he really didn’t do. 

“You’re probably going to get a lot of celebrity clients now, after this,” Miranda points out, giving him a little smile. 

“God, I hope not. The one was enough. More than enough,” Flint replies, chuckling. He watches the bubbles rise in his glass of champagne and has a moment of intense wistfulness, wishing Silver was there with him. 

The ache of that wistfulness stays with him long after his glass is empty. 

—

[part vi: better now]

Flint’s life returns to something more approaching routine after the case, with a few small differences: he takes on a few more high profile clients than he might’ve before and does interviews for various publications about what it feels like being the attorney who saved Better Now from prison. He enjoys the little bit of notoriety he’s gained, and the money certainly doesn’t hurt. 

As he expected, Silver does not let go of him easily. He gets more than a few texts from him over the ensuing months, and sternly reminds himself not to respond each and every time. Silver tries to wheedle him into going out for drinks, coming over to his house, even going to LA with him - it’s clear how badly he wants to see Flint again, and it kills Flint to just ignore him, but he doesn’t know what else to do. Silver even sends him samples of a few tracks from his new album, and Flint listens to them more times than he’ll admit, but he says nothing in reply. 

Finally, just before the album is released, Silver sends him a completed studio-slick track with the title ‘Better Now.’ Accompanying it is a terse missive, letting Flint know there will be a ticket waiting for him, if he wants it, at the final Florida stop of Silver’s upcoming year-long tour.

Flint listens to the song on repeat until he just can’t take it anymore, feeling all the depth of longing and the sting of what could have been that Silver was clearly wrestling with when he wrote it. The bridge before the final chorus haunts him in particular, chasing itself in circles in his brain when he’s working, or showering, or going to bed, or just trying desperately to focus on something that isn’t Silver. 

_I promise, I swear to you, I’ll be okay; you’re only the love of my life._

He tries to avoid any media coverage about Silver’s new album, _blood from a stone_ , once it comes out, and is mostly successful until one night when he’s aimlessly channel surfing in his dark living room, a fresh vodka tonic in one hand and the remote in the other. He changes the channel and there’s the man himself, wearing shiny teal leather pants, a white undershirt, and an oversized faux fur coat in eye-watering green/blue/pink technicolor. He looks good, ridiculous outfit aside. His eyes are bright and clear, and he looks genuinely happy. He has a new tattoo of what looks like barbed wire across his forehead, up by his hairline. 

“-but I think what people really wanna know about, y’know, is your process,” the host is saying as Silver listens intently, both huge hands wrapped around a mysteriously label-less can that Flint has to assume is Bud Light. He wants to change the channel, but finds himself hopelessly transfixed. He tells himself it’s because of Silver’s coat. It’s managed to hypnotize him, somehow - all those colors. “The storytelling of it all, you know what I mean? Like, how much of what you write is true to your actual experiences, and how much of it is- I guess, embellished, to make for good music?”

“Yeah man, absolutely, great question.” Silver nods and smiles, looking like he’s seriously considering his answer before he speaks again. “Here’s the realest way I can put it: some shit’s true, some ain’t. The more time goes on, man, the less it all matters. The stories we believe in, those are the ones that keep going. People- they wanna believe in me, so they do,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

Flint feels a shiver go through him; he’s got goosebumps. 

“Wow. That’s...wow! Incredible. I guess that’s why you write all your own stuff and I have a whole team of writers that I pay to make me sound good, huh?” the host jokes. Everyone laughs, and Flint can hear Silver’s raspy laughter clear as anything, even over the sound of the audience. 

Flint changes the channel hurriedly, his heart racing just from that brief glimpse of Silver. He had been under the illusion that he was finally getting over him, that he had at last set down his more than friendly feelings for him and freed himself of that particular burden. 

He’d thought wrong, clearly. Irritated with himself, he tries to focus on the old black-and-white movie he’s landed on instead, sipping his drink and resolutely not texting Silver. He doesn’t even open the last message Silver sent him so he can stare at it and obsessively re-read it yet again. 

He does listen to that old voicemail, though, for probably the hundredth time. He can’t resist the sound of Silver’s sweet, slurring voice singing him an a cappella version of ‘Time After Time,’ and he doesn’t try to. 

Once Silver goes off on his tour, Flint redoubles his efforts to get over him. He joins a dating website aimed at people his age, and even goes on a few first dates (but nothing beyond that; his heart just isn’t in it). 

He works, he goes out with Miranda - her social life is much more interesting than his, and she’s kind enough to keep him updated. He takes up knitting, just to have something to do with his hands in the evenings that isn’t compulsively fidgeting or making another drink. The world turns. The sun rises and sets, predictably, every day. Miami continues to be a playground for the types of people who will need a criminal defense attorney, and Flint continues keeping them out of prison and making good money doing it. 

He still doesn’t get over Silver. He can, eventually, admit that to himself. 

In what seems like the blink of an eye, months have passed and Silver’s tour is winding down. Flint can’t get away from his music; the track ‘Better Now’ in particular is all over the radio, taunting him. He’s startled one Thursday to realize the final show of the tour is the following night - he’s got a ticket waiting under his name and, much to his chagrin, he desperately wants to go. He can see Silver from a distance, at least. That’s safe enough. Silver was kind to set aside the ticket for him and it would be rude of him not to take advantage of the opportunity. 

It’s just that easy to talk himself into going. 

That’s how he finds himself outside a buzzing arena as the sun sets the next night, approaching the will call booth with butterflies in his stomach. 

“Hello. I’m told there’s a ticket here under my name, James Flint,” he says to the dark-haired woman on the other side of the plexiglass. Her name tag says Idelle. 

“Mmmnope, not seeing that on my list. Any other name it could be under?” she asks, cracking her gum and eyeing the computer screen in front of her. 

Flint frowns, and then sighs a long, world-weary sigh when he realizes what Silver’s done. That little shit. 

“Is there a...fancy lawyer man on the list?” he asks, feeling himself blush. 

“Oh yeah! Yep. There it is, fancy lawyer man. You got ID?” she asks, smirking at Flint. 

“ID that says ‘fancy lawyer man’ on it? No...no, I don’t. But I have a business card,” he says, and slides one of his Barlow & Flint cards to her under the gap in the plexiglass. “Will that do?”

“Sure will, hon. Here’s your ticket, enjoy the show,” she says, sliding his ticket to him. She’s kept his card, he notices. Smart girl.

“Thank you,” he mutters, and heads inside.

He’s shown to his seat, which is - as he might’ve expected - front and center. A very expensive seat that Silver declined to turn a profit on, just so he could set it aside for Flint. What is he even doing here? Everyone around him looks to be half his age, and he feels incredibly out of his element. He hasn’t been to a live show in a long time. He’s certainly never been to one where he’s had sex with the headliner, but apparently there’s a first time for everything. 

The lights go down and everyone around him starts screaming, shouting for Better Now. From the moment Silver appears, dressed in an all white ensemble printed with big red roses and pink hearts, all Flint can do is stare at him. 

If Flint feels out of his element here, it’s abundantly clear that Silver is in his. Flint is carried away, transported by his music, but more than that by his performance - Silver is like a deity, and the thousands of people in the crowd are his ardent followers, in his thrall. It’s a sight to behold. 

Towards the end of the night, as the show winds down and the energy shifts to something a little less frenetic, Silver settles himself on to a stool on the stage. A stagehand brings him an acoustic guitar and then scurries off, and Silver smiles, adjusting the guitar in his lap. He’s juggling the instrument and a lit cigarette, somehow managing not to drop either while also adjusting his microphone down. He sticks the cigarette in the headboard of the guitar. 

“Let’s see if I remember how to play this goddamn thing,” he jokes, leaning close to the mic. “This song...y’know, it’s about going through a dark time. I had a shit stretch of luck recently, and it feels good to get back onstage and be able to sing for you guys, so thank you so much for having me,” he says, to thunderous cheers. “This song is called ‘Feeling Whitney.’ Sing along if you know the words.”

Silver is technically performing the song for everyone in the packed arena, but as he starts to sing he finds Flint in the crowd, his expression changes, and suddenly it’s like they’re the only two people in the room. Flint has heard the song before, of course, but never like this. Silver is putting himself on the line, baring his soul to Flint, letting him know in so many words that he has keenly felt Flint’s absence in his life. He hasn’t forgotten him and hasn’t given up on him, either. 

Flint isn’t surprised to feel a tear rolling down his cheek as Silver croons the last line of the song, right to him. He was a fool to think he could ever get over this man. 

He’s got half a mind to stick around when the show ends and the lights of the arena come up, but it is the final night of a tour Silver has been on for a year and Flint’s sure he has big plans. Besides, Friday night or no, it’s well past Flint’s bedtime. 

He goes home alone with his thoughts, replaying Silver’s performance over and over in his mind. He wants so badly to see him, and yet. What will happen if he does?

More importantly, what will happen if he doesn’t?

By the time he arrives back at his condo and pours himself a drink, he’s made a decision. He’ll give himself a week to think about it before he goes to see Silver. He’ll plan out exactly what he wants to say, and consider seriously what he hopes to gain from seeing him in person that he couldn’t achieve by just calling or texting him. If his feelings change over the course of the week, perhaps he won’t go see him after all. 

It’s the most prudent course of action he can think of, but that doesn’t make the waiting any easier. 

His feelings don’t change whatsoever - if anything, his need to see Silver is that much stronger by the end of the week. He even goes to the trouble of writing out what he wants to say on an index card, just in case he gets overwhelmed when he finally sees him and forgets all his carefully thought out statements. 

Saturday morning finds him up bright and early. He decided early in the planning process that he’ll need to get to Silver’s house before noon if he wants to have a decent shot at talking to him while he’s something approaching sober. If he’s too early, though, he risks having to wait around at the mansion for some time until Silver wakes up, and that won’t do. Time is of the essence. 

He dithers over his clothes for an embarrassingly long time before deciding on a black v-neck shirt and dark wash jeans. Simple and casual, but undeniably attractive - a look that simultaneously says ‘we need to have a serious talk’ and ‘oh, this old thing?’ He puts on a few rings and his favorite watch, and locates his best black boots. 

He has a sensible breakfast and just one cup of coffee so he won’t be too fidgety (just his usual amount). He leaves the condo a bit past 11 in the morning, his heart in his throat. He can’t quite believe he’s really doing this, showing up unannounced at Silver’s house like a lovesick teenager. 

He parks in the driveway and strolls up to the front door, realizing suddenly that he’s left his carefully prepared index card at home. He briefly, seriously considers going back to get it, then resolves that he’ll have to just do his best to remember what he wanted to say to Silver. 

He rings the bell and hears barking from inside the mansion. Since when does Silver have a dog? Or, by the sound of it, several dogs?

The doors swings open and there’s Gates, looking much like Flint remembers: loud shirt, tight pants, carefully groomed facial hair. At his feet are two shaggy gray puppies - wolfhounds, by the look of them. One has a purple collar with rhinestones; the other, a bright orange zebra print bow tie. 

“Mr. Flint!” Gates exclaims, clearly surprised to see him. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you around here again! You don’t have an appointment,” he says, and it’s not a question. 

“No, he’s not expecting me. I just need to see him. It’s, ah, personal,” Flint says, watching as the wolfhound pups do their best to chew Gates’s loafers to ribbons. 

“Smith! Wesson! Quit that!” Gates snaps at the puppies, who slink guiltily away and then trot off into the house, presumably to find something else expensive to destroy. “Sorry about them. Quite a racket, I know. He just picked ‘em up on a whim this week. Like there weren’t enough beasts in this place already. Anyway, come in and I’ll see if he’s up yet,” Gates says, stepping back to let Flint in. 

Flint follows him to the sitting room, glancing around. It looks about the same - garish decor, overstuffed couches, cabinet that Flint knows all too well is concealing a gun. Mittens is even stretched out on the floor nearby like he was expecting Flint, although it takes Flint a moment to recognize him as he’s now full grown and practically the size of a Labrador. 

“I’ll go and throw some cold water on the kid, wake him up,” Gates jokes, then hustles up the main staircase to rouse his boss. 

Flint waits on the couch, feeling his nerves. He eyes Mittens as the large cat glides towards him on ridiculously long legs; for a moment he’s concerned he might be attacked before Mittens just plonks his big head in Flint’s lap and chitters, clearly asking to be pet. Flint obliges him. 

He half expects Silver to approach silently and startle him like he did the first time they met, but instead after a good twenty minutes he hears a cacophony on the stairs. Hurried footsteps, puppies barking, Gates and Silver arguing - it’s a lot. 

“Hal, Jesus Christ! Why the fuck didn’t you fucking tell me he was coming! Fuck.” Silver’s voice, an attempt at a seething whisper that’s louder than he probably realizes. Flint wonders briefly if he hasn’t damaged his hearing, performing in front of so many screaming fans over and over. 

“I didn’t know he was or I would have! He just showed up on his own, ‘s not like I invited him,” Gates growls back. “Pull it together, now, he can probably hear you.”

“Well he can sure as fuck hear you,” Silver snaps back. Flint turns towards the doorway just in time to catch Silver at the bottom of the stairs, frozen, staring wide-eyed at him. Gates is right behind Silver on the staircase, and the wolfhound pups are scrambling across the floor, headed straight for Flint and Mittens. 

Mittens wisely trots from the room with an aggravated hiss, and Flint stands up, hoping at least to avoid getting a lapful of over-eager puppy. The dogs are causing chaos around his feet, and Gates is red-faced and yelling at them, but that all fades away when Flint finally gets a good look at Silver for the first time in more than a year. 

He just woke up, that much is clear. He’s wearing what he probably slept in - tie dye shorts in an acid green/bright blue motif, with a matching sweatshirt. His hair is piled on top of his head in some kind of loose bun situation, held in place by a black velvet scrunchie. He’s got no jewelry on except the ever-present hoop in his nose, and even still has a line imprinted on his cheek from a wrinkle in his pillowcase. 

He’s a sight for sore eyes. 

“James,” Silver breathes, approaching him cautiously, like he’s afraid Flint might bolt if he moves too quickly. “I...what are you doing here?”

“I just had to see you. To talk to you,” Flint says. “I was at your show.” He swallows hard. 

“I know, I asked them to tell me if you picked up your ticket before the show started. And I saw you in the crowd. That last song was for you,” Silver says, taking another step closer to Flint. They’re almost within arm’s reach of each other. 

“I know,” Flint breathes. “Ah. Can we go talk somewhere else?” he asks, suddenly aware again of Gates and the general chaos of Silver’s multiple pets all around them. 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. Let’s go outside,” Silver suggests, and leads Flint through the house and out the back, to the pool. The pool itself is pristine blue, with chaise lounges around it and an outdoor living room setup nearby, complete with a waiting champagne bucket and the type of loud, overstuffed furniture Silver obviously prefers. 

It’s much calmer outdoors than it was inside, and Flint takes a moment to gather his thoughts as he and Silver sit down on one of the couches, close but not touching. He needs to try and remember everything he wanted to say. He really wishes he hadn’t forgotten his index card. 

“I came here because I think we need to talk about...this, us. I didn’t tell you I was coming because I wanted to surprise you. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to make an appearance or be anyone but yourself for me,” he begins. “To begin with, I want to say I’m sorry I ignored you all those times you reached out to me.”

“Completely ghosted me, you mean,” Silver murmurs, his brow furrowed. He looks away from Flint, fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt. 

“Yes. I apologize for that,” Flint says, sighing quietly. “The thing is, I was convinced for some time that the only appropriate relationship we could have would be a strictly platonic friendship, and I didn’t trust you to not try to be more than my friend, if I engaged with you. To be completely honest, I didn’t trust myself to reject your advances, either.”

“Oh yeah, no, I can’t be satisfied with just being your friend,” Silver says, and even though he shouldn’t be, Flint is surprised by Silver’s bluntness. 

He takes a deep breath, then looks up to meet Silver’s eyes. 

“I don’t want to just be another person you hook up with a few times and move on from. I don’t want us to only get close to one another when we’re drunk or high and can use being intoxicated as an excuse for our behavior. If we’re going to be involved, I want us to really know each other. I want you to trust me, and I want to trust you. I don’t do relationships lightly and I need to know that if we do this, it will mean more than just a- fling, to you,” he says. “Entering into a romantic relationship with an ex-client who is also a world famous celebrity is not something I’m particularly cavalier about,” he jokes dryly. “Quite frankly, I know it’s a terrible idea for any number of reasons, but that doesn’t stop me wanting it. Wanting you. Desperately,” he says, then clears his throat, twisting the ring on his left index finger. “So. What do you think?”

Silver tucks his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt and makes a soft noise of consideration, staring hard at Flint. It may be warm and humid outside, but Flint has goosebumps. 

“Fair warning, first of all - I haven’t been really, truly close to anybody in a long time. I’m rusty as fuck at it; as a general rule I don’t trust anyone and that makes it hard to have anything real,” he says, scooting a little closer to Flint on the couch until their thighs are touching. Some of his usual affect is gone from his voice and it’s different, but encouraging. “You changed things, though. From the first time I met you, I wanted to know you. Get close to you, be real with you.” He takes a deep breath, clearly struggling, but presses on: “What I need you to understand is, you already know more about me than literally any other living person in the world. You- you know all of me that I can handle anybody knowing, James, and that’s the ugly fucking truth,” he says softly. “If that’s not enough, I understand, I don’t hold it against you if you want something - someone - more.” He swallows hard, then exhales through clenched teeth. “But: if you’re looking for me, just the real _me_ , to be somebody you can trust to love you and be loved by you...then yeah. Of course I want that. Of course I want to be with you, if you’ll have me. All you had to do was ask,” he says, his throat working. 

“Really?” Flint asks, feeling a smile start to take over his face. 

“Absolutely,” Silver rasps, grinning shyly back. “I’m yours, a hundred percent.”

“Yes,” Flint says, nodding rapidly, feeling tears of joy and relief stinging his eyes. “Yes, please. I want you, and I want to be yours.”

“I forgive you for ghosting me, then,” Silver says solemnly, then bursts into giddy, nervous laughter and launches himself at Flint, folding him into a strong hug and resting his head on Flint’s shoulder. “Fuck, I missed you,” he sighs, insinuating himself gracefully into Flint’s lap. 

“I missed you too,” Flint says, holding him close. “I was so stupid to try and stay away from you.”

“Yeah, you were. But you figured it out, and you came back. I really, really hoped you would,” Silver says. 

Flint gets one hand under Silver’s chin, gently tips his head back, and kisses him. It’s like the first time he kissed him, but oh, so much better. He’s disappointed he waited this long to kiss him again, but he plans to more than make up for all the time he wasted. 

—

[epilogue: yours truly, john silver]

_six months later_

Flint has developed something of a morning routine for when he spends the night at the mansion in Coral Gables: if he doesn’t have work (and he works less than he used to, these days), he’ll wake up around 8:30 or 9, and see to making coffee while Silver continues sleeping. He has his first cup of coffee indoors, usually with Mittens or the dogs Smith and Wesson for company, then takes his second cup out by the pool and sips it leisurely while he catches up on the news on his phone. By 10 or so, Silver is awake and joins Flint for coffee and, eventually, breakfast. 

For the past week since they went public with their relationship, the routine has expanded to include the two of them reading each other the most ridiculous headlines they can find about themselves. It’s become a bit of a friendly competition, and Flint fully intends to win this morning. 

A few minutes past 10, Silver strolls out to join him, a mug of coffee in one hand and his favorite acoustic guitar in the other. He’s barely dressed, wearing a silky galaxy print robe open over a pair of fuchsia velour short-shorts. He’s already got a big grin on his face, and Flint can’t help but smile back. 

“Ooo, I’m gonna beat you good today,” Silver says by way of greeting as he plops down on the chaise next to Flint. He sets his coffee aside, takes his phone from the pocket of his robe, clears his throat, and reads with a flourish: “‘Notorious Playboy Better Now Goes Public with Much, Much Older Boyfriend.’ Ha! Not just older, but like, much, _much_ older. Burn on you, and on me, honestly.”

“That’s not bad, but I think I have you beat,” Flint says, and holds up his own phone. “Right here, on that gossip site SLY: ‘World Famous Rapper, 25, in Salacious Homosexual Relationship with His Sugar Daddy Attorney, 43.’ Surely that wins by default, if only for the use of the phrsae ‘salacious homosexual relationship.’”

“Well, damn! They called you my sugar daddy, for real?” Silver asks, amused, leaning over to look at Flint’s phone. “They know I make a fuckton more money than you do, right?”

“Apparently they do not,” Flint replies, smirking. “So, what’s my prize for best worst headline today?”

“Hmmm,” Silver rumbles, leaning back in his chaise and resting his guitar in his lap. “I’ll get you another cup of coffee in a minute, and cause I’m so generous I’ll also let you pick what we have for dinner tonight.” He strums a few chords, grinning over at Flint. “Wanna hear a new track I’ve been working on?”

“Of course,” Flint says, feeling a little tingle of excitement. He doesn’t think watching Silver perform will ever get old, even when he’s just testing half-finished songs on an audience of one. 

Eyes mostly shut, Silver sits up on the chaise and begins playing a melody that’s quickly recognizable to Flint as a Fleetwood Mac song. 

With one small difference. 

“Miranda rings like a bell through the night, and wouldn’t you love to love her,” Silver croons. “Takes to the sky like a bird in flight, and who will be her lover?” He opens one eye to look at Flint, clearly very proud of himself and his mischief. “ _Miranda_ ,” he sings, his raspy voice soaring. He plays through the chorus, then sets the guitar aside and gets up from his chaise lounge to sit on the edge of Flint’s instead, knees wide apart, hands clasped between them. “So, like...how was it?” he asks, doing an admirable impression of someone serious. 

“It’s pretty good, but it’s a little - what’s the word - derivative,” Flint teases him. “Maybe workshop it some more?”

“Harsh, man, but fair,” Silver says, clicking his tongue. “I’ll try it out on Ms. Barlow, I bet she’ll like it,” he murmurs, giving Flint a crooked smile. 

“Oh, she’ll love it. People in law school used to accuse her of being a witch, actually, and they were only half-joking,” Flint says, leaning forward to hook an arm around Silver and pull him close, settling back into the chaise with Silver more or less in his lap. 

“I can definitely see it, she gives off that kinda vibe. Unfuckwithable,” Silver murmurs, resting his head on Flint’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t cross her.”

“Wise choice,” Flint purrs, nuzzling into Silver’s hair with a contented sigh. 

Their leisurely morning segues into a similarly calm afternoon, with Silver working on some actual new music while Flint goes for a long walk with the dogs. He showers when he gets back, catches up on some work on his phone, and then eventually coaxes Silver out of his in-home studio with the promise of food and a beer or two. 

True to his word, Silver lets Flint choose what they have for dinner, so Flint decides to cook for them both since he’s a little concerned Silver seems to mostly exist on takeout and the occasional catered breakfast. Silver has said over and over that he’s an impressively bad cook, but Flint is holding on to the hope that he can teach him at least a few things, eventually. 

Despite gentle encouragement from Flint to actually use the grand dining room or at least the table in the kitchen, Silver usually prefers to eat in one of the sitting rooms or sometimes his room. Once their food is ready, they retreat upstairs to the sitting room nearest the master bedroom, the one that’s done in all dark purples and royal blues with what some might call an over abundance of neon signs. It’s garish, of course, like the rest of the house, but it’s cozy nonetheless. 

As they’re finishing up their roast pork loin, Silver holds his phone out to show Flint what’s on the screen. It’s a listing on an exotic animal breeder’s website, showing prices for baby African pygmy goats. 

“Found something I want you to get for me, sugar daddy,” he jokes, nudging Flint. “We can get a girl and a boy, call ‘em Balenciaga and Gucci.”

“Pet goats? You can’t be serious. You already run poor Gates ragged taking care of a serval, two still-growing wolfhounds, a tank full of exotic fish, the chameleons, and that fucking obnoxious macaw you just got. And, you know, managing your career, which is what you actually pay him for. What do you think he’d say if you brought yet another wild beast into the menagerie?” he asks. 

“Dammit kid, what have I told you about taking on more responsibility than you can handle? This is a home, not a zoo!” Silver says in a flawless imitation of Gates’s voice. 

“...yes, that,” Flint says, chuckling, impressed. “Please never do your imitation of me where I can hear you; I don’t need to be read to filth.”

“I don’t need to be read to filth,” Silver mimics him, nailing Flint’s Florida-mellowed English accent perfectly. 

“You’re no better than that damned parrot,” Flint gripes, pretending to be irritated (he’s secretly delighted). He briefly considers asking how Silver got so good at pretending to be other people before he realizes he already knows: practice. 

“You make it way too easy, man!” Silver exclaims, laughing. He takes a sip of his Bud Light and shifts closer to Flint on the velvet couch. “Okay, fine, so no goats. For now, anyway. But like...I think there’s room in this big ol’ house for a different wild beast,” he says, looking at Flint sideways, expression inscrutable. 

“What do you have in mind? Another dog? A ferret? A tiger, perhaps? You could be the next what’s his face,” Flint muses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 

“Joe Exotic? Naw, gross, fuck him,” Silver says, wrinkling up his nose. “I’m thinking, y’know, bigger than a ferret but not as big as a tiger.” He waits a beat, then sighs wearily like he does when he makes a reference that goes completely over Flint’s head. “ _You_ , y’ big dumbass. Move in with me.”

“Really?” Flint asks, sitting up in surprise. “I...suppose I do already spend rather a lot of time here, and you’ve been gracious enough to allow me some of your limited closet space,” he jokes. His heart is racing; he can feel a wide smile taking over his face. “Yes. I will. I’d love to,” he answers after a moment. 

Silver whoops in excitement and launches himself at Flint, managing not to spill his beer, somehow. He kisses him all over his face, then wraps both arms around him and hugs him close, laughing a low, warm giggle of delight in his ear. 

“Man, just think about what the headlines are gonna say now that my sugar daddy is moving into my house,” he crows. 

“The press will have a field day,” Flint agrees happily, squeezing Silver close. 

That night, as he brushes his teeth, Flint checks social media one last time before bed and sees a new Instagram post from Silver. It’s of the two of them by the pool earlier in the day, Silver with his bare chest and gleaming gold grin, Flint in a similar state of undress with his dark sunglasses resting on top of his head. It looks like Silver’s just told Flint a dirty joke, the way they’re both laughing and Flint is blushing. 

The caption reads: ‘better now, better forever <3’

**Author's Note:**

> This is the video of Post Malone playing 'Feeling Whitney' live that inspired Silver's performance for Flint (I even directly cribbed the pre-song monologue from it because that's just who I am as a person). Fair warning, it might make you cry.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQ0tNoZ-sj8


End file.
